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Photogi-aphic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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H.y»P..M.-»'1-V;r^.-t;>-rl 


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CIHM/tCMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICiVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductlons  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


V 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


^ 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


D 
D 


D 


D 
D 


n 


Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul^e 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


n 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shsdows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr6e  peut  causer  da  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu^s  ci-dessous. 

□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag^es 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe< 
Pages  ddcolordes,  tachet6es  ou  piqudes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtachdes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  matdriel  supplementaire 


I  I  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I  I  Pages  detached/ 

I  I  Showthrough/ 

I  I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I  I  Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  fagon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


12X 


16X 


20X 


71 


24X 


26X 


SOX 


28X 


32X 


:emplaire 
r.  Les  details 
I  uniques  du 
luvent  modifier 
nt  exiger  une 
ale  de  filmage 


The  copy  filn>etJ  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

The  irriages  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  fiim6  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Library  of  Congress 
Photoduplication  Service 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet^  de  l'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


ed/ 
I6es 

Foxed/ 
u  piqudes 


iai/ 
nentaire 


jred  by  errata 

refilmed  to 

»/ 

illement 

ata,  une  pelure, 

I  de  fapon  d 

sible. 


30X 


32X 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  Original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


1 

2 

3 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim^e  sont  film^s  en  commengant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  !a 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvct  gtre 
film^s  &  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  U\m6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

■^■*)'(VT:i%>iv/S'x^-5.'^^*f-r  I  j^-'iVj' 


J'. 


i-i&j 


i;ir1,  a  very  little  (ftrl.  liiA 


H 


I 


OUR   STREET. 


BY 

MRS.  S.  R.  GRAHAM  CLARK. 

AUTHOR  OF  "YENSIE  WALTON," 


Take  comfort  I  earth  ii  full  uf  sin, 

But  also  full  of  God. 
The  staff  supportsthy  trembling  limbi, 

While  falls  the  needed  rod. 
There's  sorrow,  and  Jehovah; 

There's  toil,  and  blessed  sleep; 
Let  smiloa  then  blossom  round  your  lipa, 

As  oft  ai  eyelids  weep. 


D.    LOTHROP     AND     COMPANY, 
32  Fbanklin  Stbeet. 


1^^ 


4%' 


^wimii. 


•  Willi  ■!  I      )  wm  II 


The  chair,  just  now,  and  usually,  was  occupied  by  a  little  girl,  a  very  little  gtrl.  with 
a  thin  face,  and  straggling  flaxen  loclts.  —  Pagejj. 


.1) 


•  .i 


L, 


■IMi.'imHWHWIIBBt'l.ll!' 


le  girl,  a  very  little  gtrl.  with 
.  —  Pagesj. 


f 

I. 


;,10'«if.. .'     ;s':'P:C-W  •!':».? 


t     t 


4 


r 

I 


■.* 


% 


OUR   STREET. 


BT 


liKi.  S.  K.  GRAHAM  CLARK. 


#»*.  s»iw»  i«a  oi  i>(ki. 

^%^? . '<«<  stptwrJ-ithy  trtroWing  linibt, 

^M^iM^"  (Ike  needed  md. 
r»«»«  f  ,«'^«»" .  and  Jclii'vah^ 

'■'i:y-vt.  r««,  Mill  Wealed  sleep; 
"bit  tociKf  "t*!:  liiflr.'iim  round  your  lip*) 

^  ot)  K*  ojMlide  weep. 


"JfHaX. 


» 


BOSTON"*^-;^*^. 
I^OTHROP     AND>COMPANY, 

32  FKANKIJN  SiBKKT. 


^ 


w.*. 


.*c 


**tr 


,.««». 


,,.ir 


**•* 


COPYRIGHT   ll» 

0.    LOTHROP    It    CO 
1860. 


P 


,..Mr 


5u'» 


i'    V 


'%* 


DEDICATION. 


^T-HE  remembrance  of  one  for  whose  P'«"°" J^^'J^^^^,';; 
I  first  conceived,  but  whose  eyes  will  never  Vf^nneU* 
X     first  conceiveu,  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^ 

Bhiue,  surrounded  by  angel  miulsUles,  unr^semiig  our  au 
TO  MY  BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS 

tKFT  BTILL  TO  BABTH  AND  ME  — 

tAey  are /our— 

THIS  BOOK  18  DEDICATED. 

flhall  I  sav  especially  to  her  whose  dusky  eyes  have  neve- 


f# 


«3 


S 


iUrr-^}r,.u.. 


3 


r^  ;^ 


^mmmmmm^mi 


PMM 


■fMMH 


mmemmimimmmmmmmimmgm 


'  -   '^"''Tili  Cii 


VAQI. 

I. -Some  Things  about  U  worth  Knowing      -       -       1 

10 
II.  —  Had-beeni  and  Are-nowB        .       -       - 

III.  —  Little  Med'clne    ■''""".. 

IV.  — Beefsteak,  Babies  and  Dally  Bread-       -        -         '>* 

v.— Ilappenln's ^ 

VI.  — Little  Stevle 

Vn.  — A  Tramp     -       - 

VIII. —A  Found-out  and  lU  Outcome 

IX  —  Mr.  Jenkins  is  Charitable ^^ 

X.  —  MUs  Juniper  out  on  Duty       *       "       '        '         qT 
TI  —  Pangs  and  their  Afterwards       .       .       -       -    184 

XIL— Mr.  Jenkins*  Exit *"" 

212 
XIIL  — What  slew  the  Dwgon        .       -       -       - 

XIV  —Dick's  Star  In  the  Ascendant  -       .       -        -       28 

,  241 

XV.-Letty    ----- 

XVL— How  Ike  Proposed 

XVIL  — Jetty  In  Need  of  Med'clne 269 

XVIII. -Next  Comes ^ 

XIX.  —  After  Scraps        - 

_    II  _       -       •       -       •       o24 

XX.— Endings    .       -       -       -       - 

T. 


&V' 


•  ) 


I  ■ 


i- 

h 


! 


if  ' , 


■J 


4 


OUR  STREET. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BOMB  THINGS  ABOUT  IT   WOETH  KNOWING. 


IT  was  iu  a  city.  A  neat,  nice,  cozy,  comfortable 
city ;  a  sea-breezy,  rambling,  country-suggest- 
ive, sweet-scented  city;  a  busy,  mercantUe,  yet 
home-happy,  well-to-do  city.  A  little  old-fash- 
ioned, perhaps,  in  its  simple  faith  in  many  Bible 
truths;  ultra,  somewhat,  in  its  notions  of  reUgious 
and  social  liberty;  a  kind  of  little  earthly  par- 
adise to  certain  goodish  sort  of  fanatics  —  slav- 
ery-hating, temperance-loving,  liberty-preaching 
fanatics  — fanatics  that  might  be  reasonably  sup- 

7 


-m 


I^^S 


8 


0T7B  STREET. 


posed  to  hold  at  least  a  fifth-cousinship  to  those 
who  wrote  "All  men  are  born  free  and  equal," 
and  who  were  credulous  enough  to  believe  this 
a  rule  worthy  of  acceptance,  "All  things  what- 
soever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do 
ye  even  so  to  them." 

Indeed,  our  city  was  pronounced  by  some  peo- 
ple—and not  the  worst  people  in  the  world, 
either— as  healthy  in  its  public  tone  as  the 
breezes  that  swept  its  white-winged  bay,  tossing 
the  hair  of  the  merry-voiced  children  that  played 
in  its  streets,  rustling  the  folds  of  its  stars  and 
stripes,  swaying  its  hundreds  of  mighty-armed 
trees. 

It  was,  moreover,  in  a  neighborhood.  Our  Street. 
A  busy,  bustling,  bread-and-butter  earning  neigh- 
borhood;  a  cart-wheeling,  newspaper-screaming, 
meat,  butter,  sugar,   salt^ealing   neighborhood. 
A  neighborhood  where  people  ate,  drank,  worked, 
slept,  and  got  up  to  repeat  it  again  year  by  year. 
A  neighborhood  where  people    joyed,  suflPered, 
sickened,  died;  where  babes  were  born  to  scream 


i^y 


sinship  to  those 
ree  and  equal," 
to  believe  this 
11  things  what- 
1  do  to  you,  do 

i  by  some  peo- 
in  the  world, 
c  tone  as  the 
}d  bay,  tossing 
en  that  played 
if  its  stars  and 
mighty-armed 

3d,  Our  Street, 
earning  neigh- 
iper-screaming, 
neighborhood. 
Irank,  worked, 
year  by  year, 
yed,  suflPered, 
urn  to  scream 


SOME  THINGS  ABOUT  IT  WOBTH  KNOWING.       9 

and  laugh,  pat  cakes,  make  mud-pies,  take  cholera- 
infantum  and  measles,  whooping-cough  and  what 
not?  and  live  through  it  all  sometimes,  drag 
through  it  all  sometimes,  die  through  it  all  some- 
times, until  a  day  came  when  the  dying  ended, 
and  there  was  a  burial. 

In  short,  the  whole  tragedy  of  life  was  enacted 
continually  in  our  neighborhood;  tragedy,  and 
comedy  as  well,  for  laughter  treads  upon  tears, 
moans  trip  up  jokes,  merriment  pays  penance  to 
sorrow,  and  woe  compensates  itself  in  after  smiles. 
You  will  understand  from  this  that  Our  Street 
was  not  destitute  of  homes.      Yet    there  were 
plenty  of  shops  in  it,  and  all  trades  were  repre- 
sented there.    Grocers,  butchers,  tinsmiths,  black- 
smiths, shoe-makers;  periodical  and  confectionery- 
shops,  millinery  and  fancy-goods  stores,  a  hair- 
cutting  establishment,  and  even  a  dining-saloon 
and  mw-shop  — don't  let  me  forget  that  I 

A.  rum-shop  in  our  city  1  Surely  I  —  Perhaps 
I  have  used  too  low  a  term.  A  drinking-saloon 
it  was.  .None  of  your  smaU,  dirty,  jug-of-whisky 


^' 


^0: 


^Kj' 


AV 


^ 


10 


OUB  STEEET. 


shanties,  but  a  clean,  bright-windowed,  cheery, 
looking  shop,  with,  polished  counters,  outclass 
decanters,  swinging  glass-Washer,  and  a  bright- 
colored,  fancy,  paper  fly-catcher.  Ah,  I  wish 
flies  were  the  only  things  they  caught  there  I 

But,  as  I  said,  though  there  were  plenty  of 
shops,  there  were  homes  also.  Most  of  them 
over  th  se  stores,  some  back  of  them,  a  few  pri- 
vate  houses  where  the  better  class  lived,  and  a 
few  tenement-houses  where  —  well,  you'll  find 
out  soon  enough  who  occupied  them. 

Of  course  Our  Street  was  not  genteel— not 
exactly.  It  was  nex  Moor-neighbor  to  it,  though, 
for  on  both  sides  of  it  ran  streets  decidedly  so, 
and  the  horse-car  could  carry  you,  any  hour, 
right  to  £he  West  End,  among  the  elite,  for  six 
cents. 

Then,  too,  Mr.  Jenkins,  the  rum-seller— excuse 
me,  drinking-saloon-keeper,  I  mean  — was  worth 
quite  a  sum.  He  had  real  velvet  furniture  in 
his  parlor, ^nd  owned  a  carriage;  and  although 
he  lived  over  his  establishment,  it  was  in  great 


^-C-S.^^i^^ii3!ChJ:it'^^!^lifJ  '">-^ya:  .i  ..--•■■^ 


"-  --^^'ii-.sm.ymn-ti 


BOMB  THINGS  ABOUT  IT  "WOBTH  KNOWING.     11 


adowed,  cheery- 
iinters,  cut-glass 
,  and  a  bright- 
Ah,   I  wish 
aught  there  I 
were  plenty  of 
Most  of  them 
leni,  a  few  pri- 
88  lived,  and  a 
bU,  you'll  find 
lem. 

;  genteel — not 
r  to  it,  though, 
i  decidedly  so, 
ou,  any  hour, 
e  elite,  for  six 

seller —  excuse 

I  —  was  worth 

b  furniture  in 

and  although 

was  in  great 


grandeur,  and  his  wife  and  daughters  dressed 
quite  up  to  the  styles.  Then  Lawson,  the  con- 
fectioner, and  Hudworth,  the  periodical  man, 
and  the  half-a-dozen  grocers,  were  all  well-to-do  ; 
they  kept  company,  and  visited  with  the  next 

streets. 

O,  n'ol  Our  Street  folks  were  not  poor  or  low, 
not  most  of  them.  Of  course  there  were  a  few. 
"The  poor  always  ye  have  with  you,"  means 
forever,  and  our  city,  and  even  Our  Street,  were 
no  exceptions. 

It  was  a  long  street,  and  stretched  itself  just 
above  the  bay.    Not  the  front  bay,  but  the  back 
bay,  which  meant  water  enough  to  sail  boats 
sometimes,  mud  enough  to  stick  boats  aU  times, 
and  scents,  at  other  times,  anything  but  odor- 
iferous, when  the  summer  drought  and  the  sum- 
mer heat  both  laid  their  mighty  grasp  upon  it. 
Yes,  it  was  a  long  street,  yet  not  disagreeably 
so.     Beginnmg  in  the  city's  stir  and  bustle,  it 
stretched  itself  far  past  the  noise  and  turmoU, 
through  oak  grove  and  meadow  green,  as  if  to 


ipna*. 


12 


ODE  STREET. 


refresh  itself,  after  labor  and  din,  man's  smallness 
and  inability,   with  God's  mighty  stretches    of 
green  restfulness,  and  vast   resources  of   blue 
quiet,  undimmed  as  they  were,  by  the  smoke  of 
consuming  heat  and  greedy  gain. 

Out  along  its  green  stretches  the  children  often 
went  to  play,  the  student  sat  beneath  its  trees  to 
study,  and  great  was  the  warfare  waged  contin- 
ually  'twixt  school-boy  and  squirrel  as  to  which 
Bhould  lay  in  largest  winter  stores  from  the  rust, 
ling  boughs  that  shaded  all  its  lengths.    Not  all 
the  lengths  of  the  entire  street,  remember.    Where 
Our  Street,  proper,  began,  the  trees  ended,  thence- 
forth  the  stores  giving  it  all  its  cheer  and  brilliancy. 
It  boasted  at  least  three  fancy  goods  stores. 
Their  gay  ribbons  and  gayer  toys,  smart  caps, 
beads  and  bracelets  enlivened  Our  Stxeetj  the 
great  black  stoves  and  shining  tins  at  Mr.  Hub- 
bard's suggested  warmth  and  home.    Thehaunches 
of  beef  and  bottles  of  pickles,  the  apples  and 
omons,   cranberries  and  raisins  at  the  grocers' 
made  a  hungry  man  dream  of  dinner;  but  they 


"^is;sssBmttmm 


SOME  THIKG8  ABOUT  IT  WOBTH  KNOWING.    18 


^in,  man's  smallness 
ighty  stretches  of 
resources  of  blue, 
0.  by  the  smoke  of 
ain. 

the  children  often 
eneath  its  trees  to 
'are  waged  contin- 
uirrel  as  to  which 
res  from  the  rust- 
lengths.    Not  all 
Jmember.    Where 
ees  ended,  thence- 
eer  and  brilliancy, 
'cy  goods  stores, 
ioys,  smart  caps, 
Our  Street  J  the 
tins  at  Mr.  Hub- 
3.    The  haunches 
the  apples  and 
at  the  grocers* 
linnerj  but  they 


couldn't  begin  to  aggravate  him  like  the  smell 
that  issued  from  the  saloon  kitchen,  or  the  tempt- 
ing pies  and  frosted  cakes  that  stared  at  him 
through  its  windows.  Then  our  baker  1  who 
ever  saw  such  loaves  of  bread  as  his?  Long, 
oval -shaped,  delicious  loaves;  broad,  chunky, 
triple-twined  loaves.  Such  a  brown  on  the  top ! 
Light,  soft,  tempting  brown,  like  the  blush  on 
a  sable  cheek,  as  if  the  oven  kissed  them.  And 
the  stacks  of  gingerbread  1 1  —  But  we  forbear. 
Our  Street  certainly  looked  as  if  there  was  enough 
for  its  inhabitants  to  eat. 

Then  there  was  the  confectioner,  who  sweet- 
ened Our  Street.  And  the  periodical  man,  who 
furnished  sensationalism,  weak  nerves  and  dissi- 
pation, at  one  and  the  same  time,  and  dubbed 
them  brains;  and  the  shoemaker,  outside  whose 
tempting  window  generally  stood  at  least  one 
small,  bare-foot  urchin,  picking  out  shedding  for 
that  future  day  when  his  ship  should  come  home. 
But  don't  let  me  forget  that  drinking-saloon. 
Time  would  fr.il  me  to  tell  all  it  did  for  Our 


'  \ 


f 

i 


■  A/ 


♦  1 


•"-"•^sxsfismsfo 


14 


OUB  STEEET. 


Street  I     How  could  we  have  existed  without 
it?    How  it  kept  the  air  pregnant  with  rumors 
of  war,  soul-refreshing  to  so  large  a  part  of  a 
restless  community  I    Why  I  it  furnished  us  with 
a  police  officer,  and  kept  him  busy;  sold  sticking- 
plaster  and  liniments  unnumbered  for  our  druggist 
—who,  by-the-way,  we  forgot  to  mention,— brought 
more  than  one  neat  little  job  in  the  way  of  good 
old  Dr.  Fosby ;  and  the  police-court  and  lawyers  I 
they  owed  everlasting  thanks  to  it,  would  have 
been  quite  homesick  and  lonesome  without  it. 
To  be  just  honest,  our  whole  city  was  indebted, 
one  way  or  another,  to  that  saloon. 

To  be  sure,  it  did  take  some  of  Widow  Graf- 
ham's  trade  from  her.  Women  can't  buy  bonnets 
aud  stockings  and  gloves,  when  their  husbands 
buy  whisky.  But  Mr.  Jenkins  was  a  conscientious 
man,  and  made  up  all  Widow  Graf  ham  lost,  by 
aUowing  his  wife  and  daughters  to  patronize 
largely  at  Madame  Defoy's,  up-town.  There  is 
a  law  of  compensation,  you  know,  in  this  world. 
What  Widow  Graf  ham  lost,  Madame  got,  and,  as 


;t'" 


e  existed  without 

jnant  with  rumors 

large  a  part  of  a 

furnished  us  with 
isy;  sold  sticking- 
3d  for  our  druggist 
nention, — brought 
1  the  way  of  good 
ourt  and  lawyers  I 
bo  it,  would  have 
58ome  without  it. 
ity  was  indebted, 
aloon. 

of  Widow  Graf- 
lan't  buy  bonnets 
in  their  husbands 
as  a  conscientious 
jrraf  ham  lost,  by 
Jrs  to  patronize 
-town.  There  is 
w,  in  this  world, 
iame  got,  and,  as 


SOME  THINGS  ABOUT  IT  WORTH  KNOWmO.    15 

a  matter-of-course,  what  Drunken  So-and-^o's  wife 
and  children  didn't  wear,  Mr.  Jenkins'  did.  But 
then  So-and-so  got  inside  what  made  him  feel  as 

well for  at  least  thirty  minutes  —  as  his  wife 

and  children  might  have  looked;  and  that  was 
exactly  as  good  —  exactly. 

I  said  Onr  Street  was  long.  It  wasn't  broad, 
however,  neither  could  it  be  said  to  be  narrow. 
It  was  decently  both  ways,  and  almost  a  village 
in  itself.  The  houses,  most  of  them,  were  three 
or  four  stories  high  —many  of  them  brick  —  each 
story  containing  from  three  to  five,  or  from  five  to 
seven  rooms  — a  separate  family  generally  inhab- 
iting each  story,  and  sometimes  a  lodger  or  two 
beside.  The  social  standing  of  the  occupants  was 
rated  very  much  according  to  the  loftiness  of 
his  or  her  abiding-place ;  the  poorest,  in  most  cases, 
being  those  nearest  the  skies. 

I  think,  taking  it  all  in  all,  you  will  agree  with 
me,  reader,  that  ours  was  a  well-to-do  street,  com- 
fortable, to  express  it  in  one  word,  after  the  fashion 
of  little  Bry  Perkins,  who,  by-the-by,  knew  not 


J 


%f 


1: 


»\ 


we^^f>i0i. 


le 


OUR  STREET. 


a  tithe  of  its  advantages.  Near  as  it  wm  to  the 
centre  of  trade,  it  was  not  far  removed  from  lural 
charms,  for  the  same  horse-car  route  that  connected 
it  on  one  side  with  the  city's  busiest  thorough- 
fares,  on  the  other  joined  it  to  one  of  the  fairest 
hamlets  that  stud  our  fair  land. 

Crossing  Our  Street,  just  beside  the  apothe- 
cary's, was  Next  Street,  which  lost  itself  in  a 
bridge  spanning  the  bay,  and  carried  foot-passen- 
ger  and  horse-car  rider  far  out  into  a  beautiful 
village,  rich  in  country  charms  and  city  privileges, 
with  palatial  homes  and  comfortable  farm-houses, 
conservatories  and  nursery  gardens,  stretches  of 
green  woodland  and  waving  grain-fields. 

The  village  had  shops  of  its  own,  churches, 
school-houses,  tempeiance  societies  and  literary 
clubs,  and  its  cemetery  was  the  wonder  and  delight 
of  its  visitors.  There  were  other  graveyards  in 
our  midst,  but  nothing  comparable  with  tliis. 

There  summer  rioted  in  melody  and  sweetness; 
there  winter  smiled,  sun-crowned,  and  rained  her 
enow-buds  on  trees  of  living  greenj  there  death 


i:P 


r-.TKa»«x*-;^T^.38ic,-3ri-i.  •^'i^J'7; 


KT. 


BOMB  THIKG8  ABOUT  IT  WORTH  KNOWING.    17 


ear  as  it  ^m  to  tbo 
r  reanoved  from  i  ural 
p  route  that  oonnc  cted 
fs  busiest  thorough- 
to  one  of  the  fairest 
and. 

beside  the  apoche- 
hich  lost  itself  in  a 

carried  foot-passen- 
)ut  into  a  beautiful 
3  and  city  privileges, 
brtable  farm-houses, 
■ardens,  stretches  of 
grain-fields. 

its  own,  churches, 
3ieties  and  literary 
wonder  and  delight 
)ther  graveyards  in 
'arable  with  this, 
ody  and  sweetness ; 
led,  and  rained  her 
green  J  there  death 


prophesied  of  life  to  come,  in  abundant  bloom 
and  beauty.  Daily,  when  the  weather  was  propi- 
tious,  the  cars  carried  scores  of  men  and  women, 
boys  and  girls,  to  its  wide-spread  gates. 

There  childhood  wandered  on  its  brook-banks, 
and  lovers  crossed  its  rustic  bridges,  whispering 
honied  words,  unmindful  of  their  close  proximity 
to  death.    There  thoughtful  men  brooded  on  life 
and  its  uncertainties  —  and  certainties,  too,  per- 
haps,—and  curious  men  examined  its  queerly- 
wrought  arbors,  and   quaintly  fashioned  grave- 
stones.   There,  beside  grassy  mounds.  Grief  shed 
her  tears,  yet  not  such  bitter  tears,  perhaps,  as 
had  been  hers  were  the  spot  forlorn  and  desolate. 
It  seemed  not  quite  so  dread  a  place  to  leave  our 
loves,  there  where  the  bride  sang  aU  day  long, 
and  merry  children    ^ughed  and  played,  and  ate 
their  luncheons  'neath  its  trees.    Here  Vanity's 
advocates  vied  with  each  other  to    see  which 
should  make  theu:  resting-place  most  beauteous 
—  forgetting,  mayhap,  the  beauty  which  makes 
every  place  a  place  of  rest,  —  and  poverty  hoarded 


■%: 


•  ;■* 


*•».••.■ 


'^mmmm 


MH 


i8 


OUR  8TBEBT. 


its  littles  that  their  swelling  store  might  purchas* 
their  right  to  make  their  grave  with  the  rich  in 
their  death.  There  every  portion  of  our  city  had 
offered  sacrifice  — yes,  even  Our  Street  was  rep- 
resented there. 


W-lMUL^H,  J.!t,Jt,JJkJ-JL^.U,i 


mooiamonnMmo 


■BRaiB 


EST. 


f  store  might  purchas* 
rave  with  the  rich  in 
•ortion  of  our  city  hud 
I  Our  Street  was  rep- 


i 


i^' 


CHAPTER  II. 

HAB-BEEN8   AND  ARE-N0W8. 

A   ND,  in  the  first  place,  Widow  Graiham  was 
l\  both.    She  kept  a  fancy  goods  store,  on 
the  left-hand  Hide  of  Our  Street,  as  you  go  from 
the  city  to    the    Oaks;    fancy  goods,  some    of 
which,  to  be  sure,  were  well  past  the  day  when 
they  were  to  be  fancied  ;  for  stock  had  .gathered 
on  her  hands,  from  year  to  year,  until  she  herself 
knew  not  half  of  her  possessions.    But  most  ot 
her  goods  were  very  desirable,  for  Mrs.  Graf  ham 
believed  in  keeping  up  to  the  times,  and  supplied 
her  shop  with  articles  both  necessary  and  salable. 
She  and  her  family  occupied  the  first  two  floors 
of  a  large  three^tory  wooden  buUding,  the  third 

19 


»-^fW 


■»fc'-B^#^  '  *&« 


20 


OUE  STKEET. 


Htory  being  hired  by  one  of  the  Mr.  So^nd-So's 
who  visited  friend  Jenkin's  saloon,  and  whose 
wife  consequently  did  not  much  increase  the 
widow's  trade. 

Mrs.  Grafham's  family  just  now  consisted  of 
herself,  Letty,  her  daughter,  and  her  husband 
and  little  boy,  and  Kiddy,  another  daughter,  who 
boarded  there,  though  her  bright  face  was  seldom 
seen  except  on  the  Sabbath,  ^s  the  early  cars 
bore  her  each  morning  lo  her  employment  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bay. 

The  upper  stories    of   the    house  were    only 
reached  by  going  into  the  yard,  or  street ;  a  long 
flight  of  uncovered  steps  leading  there  from  the 
former,  a  front  hall  and  carpeted  stairs  from  the 
latter.    This  was  a  little  inconvenient,  to  speak 
mildly;  but  Widow  Graf  ham  had  become  so  used 
to  inconveniences  that  it  is  -^^uite  questionable  -"^ 
she  would  not  have  been  homesick  without  them. 
She  pooh-poohed  at  young  folks  who  were  afraid 
of  a  little  rain  and  trouble,  yet  truth  compels  us 
to  state  that  she  shirked  much  of  it  herself,  by 
a  well-contrived  plan. 


■rt#flWjr..-\»*-^riiWitjft-t-, 


'iWiww!uiii..'..;ii-...j„.4i4iuiiiBiigi>. 


■»mnmm,>mmmamm^ 


JEET. 

of  the  Mr.  So-and-So's 
a's  saloon,  and  whose 
t    much   increase    the 

just  now  consisted  of 
er,  and  her  husband 
another  daughter,  who 
)right  face  was  seldom 
ith.  d,s  the  early  cars 
»  her  employment  on 

he    house  were    only 
ard,  or  street ;  a  long 
ading  there  from  the 
rpeted  stairs  from  the 
iconvenient,  to  speak 
a  had  become  so  used 
luite  questionable  if 
nesick  without  them. 
)lks  who  were  afraid 
et  truth  compels  us 
ich  of  it  herself,  by 


HAD-BEENS  AND   ARE-NOWS. 


21 


There  was  only  one  room  back  of  the  shop,  a 
good-sized  kitchen.      But,  used  to   contrivance, 
the  widow,  by  means  of   a  suspended  curtain 
across  the  large   shop,  had   quite  a  decent  bed- 
roon.,  or  parlor,  as  you  please.    This  enclosure 
was  neatly  carpeted  with  green.    On  one  side 
stood  her  bed,  with  downy  pillows  and  snowy 
spread,  a  large  arm-chair,  a  little  table  on  which 
lay  a  few  books,  a  work-box  and  a  medicine-box ; 
and  on  the  other  side  of   the  enclosure  stood 
Letty's  piano,  a  book-case  well-stocked,  and  a 
black  hair  lounge.    Midway  between  the  space 
left    where    the   curtain    looped    back,   and  the 
kitchen  door,  usually  stood  a  rocking-chair,  and 
the  walls  were  covered  with  pictures,  a  looking- 
glass  hanging    above  the  table.      Here  Widow 
Graf  ham  slept  at  night  — here  she  received  her 
company  by  day. 

She  was  not  now  what  she  had  been  once.  The 
years  had  fallen  thick  on  the  dear  woman's  head, 
and  left  their  tracks  behind  —  tracks  seen  in 
furrowed  cheek  and  wrinkled  brow,  in  dimming 


f*. 


«rsBeess»!9iess 


mumif 


■■'mmmm:^- 


!-r 


**  OUK  STEEET. 

eye  and  faUing  step,  and  scattered,  lengthened 
teeth. 

She  had  been  a  belle  and  a  beauty  once,  Widow 
Graf  ham  had,  and  traces  still  were  on  her  of  that 
olden  day,  in  form  unusually  erect,  in  soft,  long, 
rippling  hair,  whose  length  still  swept  below  her 
waist,  whose  brown  waves  were   even  now  only 
occasionally  broken  by  slender  threads  of  snow. 
There  had  been  po    -rty  and  pain  in  her  life. 
They  were  not  altogether  wanting  now.     But 
poverty  was  no  longer  biting,  struggle  tonlay  was 
not  as  heretofore,  for  bread  to  fill  seven  little 
open  mouths;  for  foothold,  while  she  labored,  in 
the  busy  world,  whose  thousands  trip  each  other 
up  in  their  haste  io  reach  life's  goal.    Twice  left 
to  widowhood,  there  had  been  hand-to-hand  bat- 
ties  just  for  bread,  and  yet  she  often  said,  with 
honest  pride,  "  They  never  went  to  bed  hungry  I  » 
Quite  true  I    Whether  she  ever  did  or  not  God 
knows. 

Of  the  seven  children  her  heart  had  nourished 
we  have  only  to  do  with  four  in  this  story,  and 
will  therefore  dismiss  the  rest. 


ixmjim»mammx)i,^0li 


SET. 

scattered,  lengthened 

a  beauty  once,  Widow 
11  were  on  her  of  that 
y  erect,  in  soft,  long, 
still  swept  below  her 
were   even  now  only 
ier  threads  of  snow, 
and  pain  in  her  life, 
wanting  now.     But 
,  struggle  to-day  was 
i  to  fill  seven  little 
fvhile  she  labored,  in 
inds  trip  each  other 
3'8  goal.    Twice  left 
m  hand-to-hand  bat- 
she  often  said,  with 
jnt  to  bed  hungry  I  " 
ver  did  or  not  God 

ieart  had  nourished 
r  in  this  story,  and 

it.  ... 


HAD-BEEN8  AND  ABE-NOWS.  28 

One  of  these  four,  the  eldest,  was  Gregory 
Hudworth,  our  periodical  man.    A  wayward  boy 
he  had  been,  deserting  his  mother  in  her  hour 
of  need,  and  filling  her  heart  with  the  bitterest 
agony  of  her  bitter  life.    Eight  long  years  she 
prayed  and  watched,  watched  and  prayed.    Only 
the  Father  knows  what  weary  groanings  filled 
their  length,  what  tears  bedewed  their  passage. 
But  all  those  tears  were  bottled  up  in  heaven, 
those  prayers  made  incense  before  the  throne ; 
their  fruitage  was  the  coming  home  at  length,  and 
later  still  the  other,  truer  coming  home. 

Next  to  him  was  Kiddy  Langdon,  mother's 
constant  care  and  anxiety  in  the  days  when  spark- 
ling eye  and  dimpled  face  won  many  admirers; 
mother's  comfort  now,  when  all  things  must  bow 
to  mother's  will  and  pleasure.  She  had  been 
named  Kidder  after  a  grandmother,  and  had  bat- 
tied  her  name  as  she  did  her  destiny,  until  one 
day  a  new,  strange  light  dawned  in  her  heart, 
transforming  it  and  her. 

She  kept  a  fancy  goods  store  in  the  vUlage 

across  the  bay. 


S4 


OXJB  ST~».EET. 


The  Other  two,  Becky  Cartwright  and  Letty 
Sawyer,  were  children  of   the  widow's    second 
husband,  Abel   Grafham,  and  very  unlike  were 
they;  Becky  possessing  the  intellectual  gifts  of 
her  father,  together  with  his  dark  eyes  and  eager, 
thirsty,  restless  temperament,  and  Letty  all  the 
physical  .charms  and  graces  of  her  mother.    An- 
tipodes  were  they,  but  loving  ones;    and  two 
happier  children  seldom  brighten  any  home,  or 
take  separate  paths  in  life  more  reluctantly. 

Abel  Grafham  had  been  largely  endowed  both 
physically  and  intellectually.  He  united  with  a 
tall,  commanding  form,  rare  wit  and  social  charms. 
Alas  I  his  very  gifts  made  him  an  easy  prey  to  the 
wine^up,  and  who  shall  measure  the  bitterness  of 
soul  that  reached  the  woman  at  his  side  ? 

She  suffered  long  and  patiently,  and  had  she 
been  alone  might  have  remained  beside  him  much 
longer.  But  her  children  ?  Maternity  was  big 
in  Mother  Graf  ham's  bosom.  Theirs  was  already 
the  misfortune  of  a  drunken  parent;  must  it  be 
also  the  culture  of  a  drunkard's  home?    Her 


BMBMIWi 


BET. 

^artwright  and  Letty 
the  widow's    second 
tnd  very  unlike  were 
e  intellectual  gifts  of 
dark  eyes  and  eager, 
nt,  and  Letty  all  the 
of  her  mother.    An- 
'^ing  ones;    and  two 
»hten  any  home,  or 
nore  reluctantly, 
irgely  endowed  both 
•    He  united  with  a 
nt  and  social  charms. 
I  an  easy  prey  to  the 
iure  the  bitterness  of 
a  at  his  side? 
iently,  and  had  she 
ed  beside  him  much 
Maternity  was  big 
Theirs  was  already 
parent;  must  it  be 
Sard's  home?    Her 


HAD-BBENS  AND  AEE-NOW8.  25 

mother -love  developed  heretofore  unrecognized 
resources  of  strength  and  daring,  and  with  her 
seven  she  went  forth  to  meet  the  world. 

But  not  long  did  this  man,  whose  love  of  wife 
and  children  continually  combated  the  habits  that 
had  driven  them    forth,  continue    the    unequal 
struggle.    The  many-chorded  instrument  is  soon 
unstrung.     His  splendid  frame  lost    its  manly 
strength,  his  sharpened  intellect  its  edge.    He 
died,  rum^lain,  and  left  behind -his  children's 
only  inheritance -a  few  yellow,  stained  letters, 
written  to  his  wife  during  her  dreary  exUe.    Let- 
ters  rich  with  the  poetic  genius  of  a  great  mind, 
groaning  with  aU  the  weight  of  sorrow  his  heart 
recognized,  pitiful  in  their  revelation  of  chains 
riveted  on  mind  and  heart,  which  the  might  of 
manhood  could  not  break.    O  Ruml  thousands 

are  thy  victims. 

Becky  was  odd  and  wiUful,  her  mother  said  — 
perhaps  she  was  the  best  judge.  It  is  certain 
she  held  notions  of  her  own,  never  quite  received 
by  the  rest  of  the  family.    She  was  an  acknowl- 


't 


VftKHmmmmm 


28 


OUB  STREET. 


edged  bookworm,  the  family  authority,  the  end 
of  questioning,  generally.  Generally,  I  say,  be- 
cause  she  was  not  considered  good  ecclesiastical 
authority. 

I  don't  know  but  I  will  have  to  admit  that 
Becky  was  willful ;  some  said  "  positive  "  _  what 
a  terrible  (?)  characteristic  that  is  I -others 
"strong-minded,"  and  others  Btill  dared  hint  of 
literary  tastes,  blue^tockingedness,  in  short.  Yet 
in  spite  of  all  these  faults,  what  rejoicings  they 
always  held  at  her  comings  home. 

I  don't  know  how  it  was -but  it  really  was- 
that  she  became  the  receptacle  for  all  sorts  of 
secrets.  When  she  came  on  these  occasional  visits 
from  the  distant  State  to  which  she  had  gone 
with  her  husband,  there  was  always  a  sort  of 
family  revival,  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 

She  was  at  her  mother's  at  the  time  that  my 
story  opens.  Had  been  spending  Christmas  with 
her  sisters  and  brothers,  and  now  waited,  with  her 
baby  boy  on  her  lap,  the  coming  of  the  hack 
which  was  to  carry  her  to  the  depot,  for  her  hus- 
band  expected  her  home  on  the  morrow/ 


\%t.    Jk' 


BET. 

ily  authority,  the  end 
Generally,  I  say,  he- 
ed good  ecclesiastical 

I  have  to  admit  that 
d  "  positive  "  —  what 
io  that  is  I  — others 
B  Btill  dared  hint  of 
(dness,  in  short.  Yet 
what  rejoicings  they 
home. 

-but  it  really  was  — 
acle  for  all  sorts  of 
liese  occasional  visits 
vhich  she  had  gone 
.8  always  a  sort  of 
3  of  the  word. 

the  time  that  my 
ling  Christmas  with 
>w  waited,  with  her 
jming  of  the  hack 
depot,  for  her  hus- 
e  morrow! 


HAD-BEENS  AND  ARE-NOW8.  ff' 

There  was  no  snow  on  the  ground,  though  it 
was  the  last  day  of  December.  The  miserly  Old 
Year,  with  unusual  tightrfistedness,  had  persist- 
ently refused  to  clothe  himself  in  fleecy  garments 
and  airy  feathers,  for  the  appropriation  of  his 
coming  heir.  "Earn  what  you  get,"  said  he, 
through  leaden  skies  and  blustering  winds;  "I 
had  to  make  my  own  way  through  life.  Do  the 
same,  young  man,  do  the  samel" 

But  piercing  winds  and  frowning  skies  had 
but  little  apparent  effect  on  a  group  of  lads  from 
twelve  to  eighteen  years  of  age,  who  stood  on  one 
of  Our  Street  corners,  near  the  Oaks. 

"  DevU's  cubs,"  a  good  old  minister  of  our  mem- 
ory used  to  call  street-corner  youths,  and  certainly 
some  of  these  looked  as  if  the  term  might  not  be 
inappropriate.    Merry  cubs,  however,  the  younger 
povtion  of  them  seemed  to  be,  as  they  laughed  and 
hurrahed  at  the  antics  of  a  small  chap,  who,  with 
hands  in  his   pockets,  scuffled   away  for   their 
amusement,  after  the  fashion  of  the  last  minstrel 
troupe. 


■KS$^A.^W^-< 


m 


28 


OITB  8TBEET. 


Hand-clappings  and  stamps  were  mingled  with 
loud  laughs  as  one  after  another  tried  to  raimio 
his  movements,  without  success ;  and  when  a  thin 
little  fellow  suddenly  sprang  from  t  ir  midst, 
imitating,  with  great  exactness,  not  oi  y  the  mo- 
tions of  this  hero,  but  the  nasal  accent  of  his 
"  Dinah,  lubly  Dinah,"  shout  after  shout  greeted 
the  victor. 

"  Bully  for  Hob  1 "  "  He's  a  go  1"  "  Leg  it,  old 
manl"  "What'U  you  tuke  for  your  pins,"  etc., 
went  round  the  circle,  and  the  chorus  of  the  song 
took  sudden  strength  by  the  addition  of  a  half- 
dozen  young  voices. 

Apart  from  the  boys,  three  or  four  young  men 
stood  leaning  against  the  pasture  fence,  talking 
earnestly,  and  apparently  unconscious  of  the  close 
proximity  of  their  youngers,  only  when  some 
unusual  volley  of  laughter  attracted  their  atten- 
tion for  a  moment. 

"  You're  a  spooney,  Bentley.  Catch  me  giving 
up  the  only  chance  of  a  frolic,  that  way  1  He'll 
be  here  soon.    I  don't  see  what  keeps  him  5  he 


■.U^MWIUPM 


|H|.l4ll]|l|U-llWI'..t"l'liH'Ml.,-,    ^»H 


? 


m 


HAI>-BEBN8  AND  ARE-N0W8. 


29 


e  mingled  with 
tried  to  mimic 
ind  when  a  thin 
)m  t  ir  midst, 
ot  01  y  the  mo- 
,1  accent  of  his 
r  shout  greeted 

["  "Leg  it,  old 
our  pins,"  etc., 
)ru3  of  the  song 
lition  of  a  half- 

our  young  men 
e  fence,  talking 
ious  of  the  close 
tily  when  some 
ited  their  atten- 

Jatch  me  giving 
lat  wayl  He'll 
I  keeps  him;  he 


should  have  been  here  long  ago,"  said  a  tall,  lank 
youth,  with  unmistakable  signs  of  tobacco  juice 
about    his    lips.      "Let    me    alone  1 "  — spitting 
some  of  the  filthy  stuff  from  his  mouth— "I'll 
settle  him  I    What  if  the  old  woman  is. sick  1  is 
that  any  reason  I  should  give  up  my  fun  and  go 
whining?    There  he  is,  now.    Don't  be  a  chicken, 
Jim  —just  keep  mum  1    Hallo,  Dick,  old  fellow, 
how  did  you  happen  to  turn  up  just  now  ?    This 
t«  luck,  to  be  sure,  and  just  as  we  were  planning 
a  jolly  time.    Scented  it,  you  dog,  did  you,  and 
followed  the  trail  ?  "    And  Sam  Jones  put  out  his 
hand  in  greeting  to  the  cherry-cheeked  lad  who 
turned  the  corner,  with  a  surprise  well-feigned 
considering  he  had  waited  there  the  last  half  hour 
for  that  especial  purpose. 

Dick  Perkins  was  a  splendidly  built  fellow, 
broad  and  taU,  and  as  he  approached,  a  flush  of 
pleasure  on  his  ruddy  face,  he  really  looked  hand- 
some. His  black  eyes,  and  curling  hair,  and 
white  teeth,  always  preserved  him  from  plainness. 
«How  are  you?"    he  said,  in  regular   boy 


ll 


s 
^ 


mmmmf 


^iumtmi 


10  OUB  STREET. 

fashion.  "Hallo,  Jiml  is  this  you?  and  Fred? 
and  Jake?  What  are  you  up  to?  Some  of  your 
games?  I  say,  don't  those  small  chaps  step  it 
well  ?  Try  again,  Ike ;  if  you  beat  the  other  fel- 
low I'll  give  you  a  quarter  1 " 

Sam  Jones  gave  the  fellows  a  sly  wink  at  this, 
which  had  the  effect  of  making  Fred  Sikes  and 
Jim  Bentley  move  off  to  a  little  distance,  while 
Jake  Hollis  drew  nearer  the  new-comer. 

'•I  say.  Perk,  how  do  you  like  the  old  man? 
Does  he  give  you  plenty  of  winking  time,  and 
pay  up  to  the  handle?" 

"  I  should  think  he  did  I  Why,  the  old  fellow 
came  around  an  hour  before  time  to  knock  off 
to-night,  and  paid  us  a  little  for  New  Year.  Good 
of  him,  too,  for  we  get  our  pay  every  Saturday 
night,  regular." 

Another  wink  at  this,  and  Jake  continued: 

"  Now  that's  just  the  thing  1  you  were  sent 
here.  You  see  we  poor  dogs  haven't  a  dime. 
Summers  got  off  before  I  could  nab  him  for  a 
dollar,  and  we  haven't  a  penny  to  wet  our  whis- 
tles.   I  suppose  you'll  stand  treat  for  luck?" 


II  i;i,'i-..i!  K  mu^MW..!  lu.  -uJium . . 


nuUJ-Mmmmms^ 


HAD-BBBN8  AND   ARE-N0W8. 


81 


Li?  and  Fred? 

Some  of  your 

chaps  step  it 

;  the  other  fel- 

'  wiuk  at  this, 
red  Sikes  and 
distance,  while 
comer. 

the  old  man? 
dng  time,  and 

the  old  fellow 
5  to  knock  off 
w  Year.  Good 
every  Saturday 

e  continued: 
you  were  sent 
Etven't  a  dime, 
nab  him  for  a 
wet  our  whis- 
t  for  luck?" 


Dick  Perkins'  cheek  flushed  a  little  deeper,  and 
he  did  not  face  his  companion. 

"  It  isn't  much,  you  know,  Jako,"  he  said,  dep- 
recatingly,  "and  the  old  lady's  sick.  Then,  too, 
I  did  promise  myself  to  get  Bry  a  doll.  She's 
shut  up  all  the  time,  and  has  notWng  much  for 
playthings."   . 

"O,  the  dutiful  boy!"  sneered  Jake.  "Play- 
things for  his  sissy  and  medicine  for  his  mammy  I 
Dear  Uttle  fellow  I  Somebody  ought  to  give  him 
a  '  Reward  of  Merit.'  " 

There  was  an  ominous  flash  in  Dick's  black 
eyes  as  he  turned  them  full  on  the  speaker. 

"Perhaps  you'll  get  a  ♦  Reward  of  Merit'  your- 
self! You'd  better  be  careful,  HoUis ;  I'll  take 
none  of  your  slang  to-night  I"  he  said,  hotly. 
'  Mother's  sick,  and  expects  me  home,  and  I'm 
going  1    That's  the  whole  of  it." 

"Always  has  been  sick,  to  my  remembrance," 
grunted  Jake,  but  another  flash  from  Dick's  eye 

silenced  him. 

"Come,  comel  what's  the  need  of  you  two 


OUR  STBEBT. 


wmmmmm^mmm 


fellows  fighting,  the  last  day  of  the  old  year,  after 
being  cronies  clear  through  its  length,"  now  inter- 
rupted Sam.     "  You're  a  jackass,  llollis  —  worso'n 
a  rascal  — to  talk  in  tliat  stylo.    I'm  a  good  mind 
to  knock  you  down  myself.    If  Mrs.  Perkins  is 
sick  she  can't  help  it,  and  it's  only  proper  for 
Dick  to  take  care  of  her.    But  that  won't  hinder 
him  from  taking  a  social  drink  with  us    first. 
You're  too  peppery,  Perk.     There's  no  need  to 
snap  a  fellow's  head  off  because  he's  thirsty  with- 
out the  wherewithal  to  assuage  his  thirst.    Come ; 
I'm  good  for  it  —  if  you  need  your  money  at  home 
don't  spend  a  cent  of  it ;  but  let's  go  to  Jenks, 
all  the  same,  and  get  something  warm.    Nothing 
strong,  you  know  "  —  with  a  wink  behind  Dick's 
broad  shoulders.    "Come;  let  us  fellows  pledge 
each  other  anew  to  eternal  friendship  and  better 
manners.    To  tell  ^  .a  the  truth,  I've  made  up  my 
mind,  for  mother's  sake  —  she's  always  at  me  — 
not  to  drink  a  drop  after  twelve  o'clock  to-night. 
But  there's  no  harm  in  taking  a  little  something 
now,  and  promising  to  help  each  other  turn  over 
a  new  leaf."  -'"  " 


"«<i><<inM*m!!K' 


Mm^ 


old  year,  after 
h,"  now  intcr- 
)Ui9 —  worso'n 
a  a  good  mind 
[rs.  Perkins  is 
nly  proper  for 
t  won't  hinder 
with  us    first, 
o's  no  need  to 
I's  thirsty  with- 
thirst.    Come ; 
money  at  home 
s  go  to  Jcnks, 
'arm.    Nothing 
behind  Dick's 
fellows  pledge 
ship  and  better 
've  made  up  my 
ilways  at  me  — 
('clock  to-nigh ti 
little  something 
ather  turn  over 


MWRP' 


HAD-BEEK8  AND  ABB-NOW8. 


88 

This  specious  reasoning  seemed  to  please  Per- 
kins.     Ho  stretched  out  his  hand  eagerly. 

You're  a  good  follow,  Jones.  I'm  about  sick 
of  it,  anyway.  It  makes  a  fellow  feel  mean  to  be 
deceiving  his  mother  —  sneaking  into  bod  half- 
tight.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  quit— but 
hadn't  spunk  enough  to  own  right  up.  But  I'm 
ready  to  go  hand-in-haud  with  you." 

"All  right;  it's  a  bargain,  then.    Come,  let's 
go  celebrate,"  said  Jim. 

As  Dick  stopped  to  pay  Iko  Hobson  the  quarter 
he  had  earned,  the  little  fellow  whispered: 

»  Don't  go,  Dick.  Now's  the  only  time  to  turn 
leaves.  Sam  Jones'  leaves  never  tiu:n  because  he 
waits  for  to-morrow.    Come,  go  home." 

Dick  hesitated.    "She  ain't  worse,  is  she?"  he 

asked. 

"No,"  reluctantly,  "she  said  she  wasn't." 
"Come,  come  along,"  just  then  at  Dick's  elbow, 

and  Jones  slipped  his  hand  through  his   arm. 

"The  best  troupe  ever  in  the  city  here  to-night," 

Ike  beard  him  say  a»  he  led  Perkins  away,  and 

the  child  sighed. 


Hi 


84 


OITB  STBEET. 


"  I  don't  want  it,"  he  said  slowly,  looking  at  the 
coin  in  his  hand.  "  I  wouldn't  spend  it  for  the 
world.  He  won't  have  any  left  when  they  leave 
him,  and  little  Bry  won't  have  her  doll.  She 
didn't  know  about  it,  but  it's  cheating  her,  just 
the  same.  Poor  little  Bry  I "  and  something  like 
a  sob  choked  the  boy's  utterance.  "  I'll  buy  it 
myself  out  of  this  for  Dick,  he'll  be  so  glad  when 
iti:  ill  over.    He  don't  mean  to  be  badl" 

When  Dick  Perkins  left  the  drinkiug-saloon, 
an  hour  after,  a  thin,  pale  little  face  was  waiting 
for  him  at  the  door.  The  owner  of  that  face 
would  not  have  crossed  that  threshold  for  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies.  Little  Ike  Hobson  under- 
stood the  first,  the  highest  principles  of  temper- 
ance. 

*'  Why,  Ikey,  is  this  you  ?  "  hiccoughed  Dick 
as  he  turned,  detained  by  a  slight  tug  at  his  coat- 
tails.  "Why,  Ikey,"  steadying  himself  against 
Sam  Jones,  who  could  carry  more  whisky  than 
he,  "  where'd  you  turn  up  ?  Come  in  and  have 
something  warm." 


'"fg.'.W4tl,,y;Jg' 


HAI>-BEBN8  AND  ABB-NOWS. 


86 


^,  looking  at  the 
spend  it  for  the 
vhen  they  leave 
(  her  doll.  She 
leating  her,  just 
something  like 
se.  "I'll  buy  it 
be  so  glad  when 
ebadl" 

drin  king-saloon, 
ace  was  waiting 
ler  of  that  face 
ireshold  for  the 
I  Hobson  under- 
siples  of  temper- 

iiiccoughed  Dick 
-,  tug  at  his  Goat- 
himself  against 
ore  whisky  than 
>me  in  and  have 


«'0,  Dick,  come  home  with  me,  please,"  plead 

the  boy. 

u  Catch  me  at  it!    I'm  going  to  the  play.    Come, 

I'll  take  you,  seeing  you  step  so  well.  I'm  in  for 
the  treat,  you  know."  And  those  so  lately  beau- 
tiful  eyes,  now  red  and  bleary,  tried  to  wink  at 
Ike.  . 

The  child  eluded  the  hand  stretched  out  to 
grasp  him,  but  he  said,  bravely : 

«  Little  Bry  will  miss  you,  Dick.    She'll  be  so 

lonely ! " 

Little  Bry  I  What  room  was  there  in  Dick 
Perkins'  heart  or  brain  for  her  just  then?  Had 
not  strong  drink  obUterated  every  holy  love,  every 
blessed  remembrance,  for  that  hour? 

Mighty  is  thy  swa^ ,  King  Alcohol  1 


igt»*'»il!«,'BWS«i*S^'>****'"'  ■■ 


CHAPTER  in. 

LITTLE    MED'CINB. 

IT  was  a  large  square  room  in  the  old  tenement 
house  next  door  to  Widow  Graf  hams.  The 
house  had  "  its  front  door  on  the  side,"  as  little 
Bry  said,  its  only  entrance  being  through  the 
narrow  yard. 

Yes,  a  large,  square  room ;  but  low  studded  and 
dingy,  containing  a  small  cook-stove,  with  a  faded 
rug  before  it;  a  table  originally  red,  now  very 
much  the  worsf^  for  wear,  having  lost  in  some 
battle  a  part  of  one  leaf  and  the  support  of 
another,  which  was  supplied  by  a  stick  of  wood ; 
two  wooden  chairs  well-worn,  and  an  old-faiihioned 
rocking-chair,  with  a  cushion  in  it,  which  chair 
86 


!S!55wlS^ffll 


"uppmii'iipp 


LTTTLB  MBD'OINB. 


8T 


I  old  tenement 
afhams.  The 
side,"  as  little 
',  through  the 

w  studded  and 
e,  with  a  faded 
red,  now  very 
r  lost  in  some 
le  support  of 
stick  of  wood ; 
,n  old-fabhioned 
it,  which  chair 


just  now,  and  usually,  was  occupied  by  a  little 
girl,  a  very  little  girl,  with  a  thin  face,  and  strag- 
gling flaxen  locks. 

The  child  had  blue  eyes,  but  not  large  or  beau- 
tiful ones,  neither  were  her  lashes  long  and  silken= 
Her  face  was  prematurely  old,  and  somewhat  hilly 
in  its  outlines,  the  eyes  and  mouth  and  nose  being 
gathered  rather  closely  together.  Then,  too,  the 
nose  was  large,  the  teeth  and  mouth  protuberant, 
the  chin  rather  long.  Really,  the  only  beauty 
about  the  face  was  its  expression,  and  the  smile 
that  hovered  about  the  mouth  —  tJuit  was  captivat- 
ing. 

But  little  Bry  was  beautiful  within,  for  this  was 
little  Bry  Perkins ;  and  the  two  crutches  beside 
the  rocker  explained,  somewhat,  the  transparent 
hands,  the  diminutive  body,  the  pallid  counte- 
nance. 

Bry's  father  had  been  one  of  the  So-and-so's 
who  frequented  Jenkins'  saloon.  At  first  as  a 
moderate  drinker,  which  rather  diminished  his 
moderate  fortune  j  then  as  an  immoderate  drinker, 


0g^$iaimiQi^u«s^'^-* 


OUB  STB'jiBT. 


and  an  impoverished  one,  and  finally  as  an  old 
Bot  and  a  pauper. 

Strange  how  many  old  sots  that  respectable 
drinking-saloon  turned  out  to  die !  And  he  died. 
But  not  until  he  had  made  his  family  wretched, 
and  his  wife  invalid.  Then  one  night  his  little 
son  forgot  to  cower  in  fright  behind  his  mother's 
dress,  baby  Bry  forgot  to  hide  her  little  face  in 
mother's  bosom,  but  patted  cakes  till  sleep  c'er- 
took  her,  and  all  because  a  father  forgot  his  way 
home,  and  lay  down  in  the  frozen  streets. 

At  break  of  day  they  found  him  dead.    Sarah 
Perkins  shed  tears  above  his  disfigured  corpse, 
and  little  Dick  and  Bry  were  fatherless  and  fear- 
less.    Alat.1    they  never  dreamed  he  left  them 
heritage.    One  in  a  perverted  appetite,  the  other 
a  deformed  body.    God  help  the  drunkard's  child  1 
The  little  girl  was  scarcely  two  years  old — then 
a  bright,  happy  child,  her  mother's  chief  comfort ; 
and  so  it  happened  that  the  sickly  woman  began 
to  call  her  "medicine."    "My  little  Medicine," 
that  is  the  way  she  said  it,  and  no  name  was  so 
pleasant  to  the  child. 


I 

t 
f 
I 
1 


i 


UTTLB  MED'CINB. 


80 


Uy  as  an  old 

ait  respectable 
And  he  died, 
lily  wretched, 
light  his  little 
I  his  mother's 
r  little  face  in 
till  sleep  c'er- 
forgot  his  way 
L  streets. 
L  dead.    Sarah 
figured  corpse, 
arless  and  fear- 
he  left  them 
Btite,  the  other 
unkard's  child  I 
ears  old — then 
1  chief  comfort ; 
J  woman  began 
ttle  Medicine," 
0  name  was  so 


Sometimes  the  mother  changed  the  title  to 
Bryony.  "  That's  the  only  pretty  name  I  know 
that  belongs  to  medicine,"  she  said.  "Our  old 
family  doctor  used  to  call  some  remedy  by  that 
name.  Surely  you  deserve  it,  my  Uttle  Medicine. 
I  forget  aches  and  cares  alike  in  your  soft  little 
touches." 
So  Bry  2°*  ^®^  name. 

But  the  Uttle  child,  whose  nimble  feet  pattered 
such  music  in  her  mother's  ears,  soon  sickened. 
A  hip  disease  developed  itself,  and  the  Uttle  feet 
were  stiU  for  many  months,  then  after  a  whUe  of 
activity,  stai  again,  and  now  they  never  touched 
the  ground,  and  only  the  thud,  thud  of  her  Uttle 
crutches  proclaimed  her  coming. 

But  it  was  painful,  always,  for  Bry  to  move 
now,  so  generally  the  crutches  were  silent,  and 
the  long  hoursof  pain  and  weariness  were  breathed 
out  in  her  chair,  with  an  occasional  rest  when  Dick 
carried  her  in  his  strong  arms. 

Yet  no  one  thought  of  Bry  as  a  sufferer.    That 
is,  not  after  they  hatl  known  her  a  Uttle.    One 


i 


■aHHl>««!i«»atAiJ{ 


40 


OTTB  STREET. 


forgot  that  it  must  be  hard  for  her  to  be  confined, 
to  miss  the  sports  so  dear  to  childish  hearts.  Per- 
haps this  was  because  she  always  smiled.  If  a 
spasm  ot  uncontrollable  pain  marred  her  features 
for  a  moment,  it  was  followed  by  such  a  shower 
of  smiles  as  quite  effaced  it  from  your  memory. 

Dear  little  Bry  I  When  Ike  one  day  exclaimed 
at  this,  and  asked  her  why  she  always  smiled  after 
pain,  she  said:  *.  ;•;■.,'   , 

"  O,  it's  to  make  'em  forget.  It  isn't  comfort- 
able, you  know,  to  walk,  and  have  good  things 
yourself,  if  you  feel  somebody  else  hasn't  'em.  I 
always  ask  Jesus  to  send  the  pain  when  there's  no 
company ;  but  if  he  happens  to  forget,  I  know  it's 
'cause  he's  got  some  one  else  worser  to  'tend  to, 
and  I  just  smile  as  hard  as  I  can  when  it's  over." 

But  this  afternoon  Bry's  rocker  was  drawn  as 
close  as  possible  to  the  old-fashioned,  four-posted 
bedstead  that  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room, 
and  her  placid  face  smiled  on  the  pallid  mother- 
face  just  opposite,  with  its  half-closed,  misty  eyes. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bed  stood  pretty  Letty  Saw- 


NPli 


mmm 


LITTLli  MBD'OINB. 


41 


}  be  confined, 
I  hearts.  Per- 
smiled.  If  a 
I  her  features 
uch  a  Bhower 
jrour  memory, 
day  exclaimed 
rs  smiled  after 

isn't  comfort- 
B  good  things 
hasn't  'em.  I 
hen  there's  no 
et,  I  know  it's 
er  to  'tend  to, 
en  it's  over." 
was  drawn  as 
)d,  four-posted 
r  of  the  room, 
pallid  mother- 
ed, misty  eyes. 
;ty  Letty  Saw- 


yer,  her  shining  hair  abuut  her  shoulders,  her 

large  eyes  full  of  tears,  her  lipt.  trembling  with  the 

fears  that  r-^re  making  her  heart  throb.       ^--^ 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Mrs.  Perkins? 

Can  mother?    Is  there  anything  you  would  like? 

a  little  gruel,  or-"  but  the  sick  woman's  vmce 

interrupted  her. 

"No,  dear.    Nothing  unless "- she  hesitated, 
then  added  slowly  -"  unless  you  will  pray  with 

me.  _ 

Letty's  pretty  face  flushed. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  a  minister?"  she  asked, 
timidly.  "Iwillgofor  oneatonce.  Mr.  Tim- 
othy, "our  minister,  is  such  a  good  manl" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know.  But  there's  no  need.  A 
stranger  would  only  disturb  me.  It's  all  right 
with  me  and  Heaven,  but  I  thought  I  would  Uke 
to  hear  the  voice  of  prayer  again."  "  ] 

Letty's  heart  was  questioning  her,  but  she  dared 
not  listen  to  it.  Kneel  so  close  beside  that  dying 
woman  1  Every  nerve  was  already  thrilling  with 
that  strange  dread  of  death,  her  birthright. 


42 


OUB  STBSZT. 


"  Becky  has  not  gone  yet,"  she  said.  "  It  wUl 
be  a  half  hour  before  the  hack  arrives  for  her. 
She  will  come,  I  know.  I'll  send  her  right  in." 
And  she  sped  across  the  yard  as  if  a  legion  of 
death-angels  followed  close  behind. 

"  It's  so  comfortable  to  be  Letty,"  said  little 
Bry,  quaintly,  as  the  door  closed  behind  the  bright 
vision.  ^*  Just  like  a  picture,  or  the  sunshine  in 
the  morning.    She's  $o  comfortable  I " 

Little  Bry  was  not  talking  to  her  mother,  and 
did  not  mind  it  that  no  one  answered  her.  She 
had  quite  got  used  to  talking  to  herself,  in  the 
lonely  hours  she  spent  while  her  mother  helped 
the  neighbors  to  wash  or  sew,  and  had  a  fashion, 
too,  of  answering  herself. 

*'  I  s'pose  some  folks  are  comfortable  one  way 
Bind  some  another.  I'm  comfortable  when  moth- 
er's tired  and  needs  med'cine,  and  then  it's  nice 
to  be  mel"    .  v       . 

"  Comfortable  "  I  This  was  the  word  that  cov- 
ered every  deficiency  in  little  Bry's  vocabulary. 
It  was  one  of  the  things  that  drifted  early  into  her 


"'»MI^''gS«gl 


mmmmm 


■Map 


id.  « It  will 
ives  for  her. 
er  right  in." 
I  a  legion  of 

^"  said  little 
nd  the  bright 
I  sunshine  in 
I " 

mother,  and 
ed  her.  She 
srself,  in  the 
other  helped 
lad  a  fashion, 

ible  one  way 

when  moth- 

ihen  it's  nice 

ord  that  cov- 
B  vocabulary, 
sarly  into  her 


IiTTTT-*  MBD'OIKB.  w 

life— one  of  the  comfortable  things  where  com- 
forts were  few.  • 

Our  plain  little  Bry  had  been  much  disposed 
in  early  life  to  be  a  vain  little  Bry.  A  clean  face 
and  pinafore  were  wont  to  be  smoothed  by  little 
hands,  whUe  a  litUe  miss  tip-toed  before  the  small, 
cracked  mirror. 

"  Ise  pwetty ;  ain't  I  pwetty,  mamma?  "  And 
mamma,  to  cure  the  vanity.  Invariably  answered, 
"Comfortable,  dear,  you're  very  comfortable." 

So  the  little  one  adopted  the  word.    Comfortable 
was  quite  as  good  as  pretty  with  her,  and  came  to 
mean  much  more  in  time.    Things  good,  beau- 
tiful, grand,  were  all  classed  thus.    Thoughts  and 
feelings  otherwise  inexpressible,  in  it  found  utter^ 
ance.    It  garnished  and  glorified  her  life,  making 
its  plain  stretches  beautiful,  its  pangs  bearable. 
Every  life  has  some  spring  of  beauty.    Bry  Per- 
kins' was  in  that  word  comfortable. 

The  bright  vision  at  the  bed-foot  had  hardly 
vanished  ere  a  soberer  one  replaced  it.  A  kiss 
upon  the  child's  wan  face,  a  gentle  hand  upon 


1 


,a»l»M«»!»!»l*.'llliWl'*  .• 


44 


OUB  BTBKBT. 


the  sick  woman's  brow,  the  repetition,  in  a  tone 
which  gave  a  sweet,  strong  flavor  to  those  old- 
time  words,  " '  For  I  reckon  tl-at  the  sufferings  of 
this  present  time  are  not  worthy  to  be  compared 
with  the  glory  which  shall  be  revealed  in  us.' " 
" '  While  we  look  not  at  the  things  which  are  seen, 
but  at  the  things  which  are  not  seen.' "  "  *  For  we 
know  that  if  our  earthly  house  of  this  tabernacle 
were  dissolved,  we  have  a  building  of  God,  an 
house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the 
heavens ; ' "  and  Becky  bowed  beside  the  bed  to 
pray. 

It  was  80  glad  a  thing  to  go  to  Jesus,  so  sure 
a  thing  to  this  worn  sr  .1 !  Smiles  chased  tears 
over  little  Dry's  face,  the  dying  woman  caught 
premature  glimpses  of  glory,  the  kneeler's  soul 
thrilled  and  quivered  with  the  electric  sparks 
called  down.  Becky  Cartwright  was  used  to 
holding  intercourse  with  Heaven. 

There  was  a  radiant  smile  upon  the  sick  wo- 
man's face  as  Becky  lifted  hers. 

**  You  make  it  a  glad  thing  to  die,"  she  said. 


^fmimmmfm^B 


^mmmmmmi&mmmm 


on, in  a  tone 
to  those  old- 

Bufferings  of 
be  compared 
laled  in  us.' " 
bich  are  seen, 

"  "'For  we 
tis  tabernacle 
;  of  God,  an 
imal  in  the 
e  the  bed  to 

Jesus,  BO  sure 
chased  tears 
oman  caught 
kneeler's  soul 
9ctric  sparks 
was   used  to 

the  sick  wo- 

iie,"  she  said. 


LITTUB  MBD'cINK.  H^ 

»'  I'm  never  sad  because  I'm  going  home,"  re- 
plied Becky,  simply.  "  O,  Mrs.  Perkins,  I  con- 
gratulate you  1 "  a  thrill  of  rapture  la  her  voice. 
"  It  is  and  must  be  still  for  awhile  to  me, '  through 
a  glass  darkly.'    Yours,  O,  how  shortly  1  '  face  to 

face.'" 

"Yes— -but  — "    a    shadow  flitted  across  the 

woman's  face  as  her  eyes  rested  on  Bry. 

Becky  caught  the  meaning  of  that  look. 

"'Leave  thy  fatherless  children,  I  wUl  preserve 
them  alive,  saith  the  Amen,  the  faithful  and 
true  Witness.'      0,  Mrs.    Perkins,  we    have   a 

God!" 

The  dying  woman  closed  her  eyes  and  smiled, 
and  quiet  settled  on  the  circle.  The  ticking  of 
the  old  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf  was  distinctly 
heard  in  the  silence  that  followed.    Then  Becky 

spoke  again: 

"  I  must  go  now.  Would  you  like  some  one  to 
sit  with  you,  Mrs.  Perkins?  Mother?  or  Letty? 
or  one  of  the  neighbors?" 

"  0,  no  1 "  the  smile  still  lingering  about  the 


i 


OUB  8TBBET. 

woman's  face.  *'I  have  no  pain  —  am  much 
more  comfortable  than  for  days  past.  Bry  knows 
bow  to  get  all  I  need.  Then  Dick  will  be  here 
soon,  and  I  want  to  talk  with  him  alone." 

For  the  second  time  that  night  warm  lips 
pressed  little  Bry's  pale  cheek,  soft  hands  lingered 
about  the  woman's  face.  "  Good-night,  Mrs.  Per- 
kins. I  will  meet  you  again  ere  very  long ; "  and 
the  door  closed  as  little  Bry  gave  a  long  breath  of 
satisfaction. 

"'Shall'  aad  'know'  are  such  comfortable 
words,"  she  said.  "Iney're  big  and  strong,  and 
Becky  says  them  so  often." 

Little  Bry  bed  guessed  the  secret  of  Becky 
Cartwright's  helpfulness.  There  were  no  guesses, 
no  peradventures  to  her  religion.  It  was  always, 
"  I  know  Whom  I  have  believed,  and  am  per- 
suaded that  He  is  able  to  keep  that  which  I  have 
committed  unto  Him  against  that  day." 

The  hack  was  waiting  when  Becky  reached 
the  shop. 

"Is  she  worse?"  Mrs.  Graf  ham  asked,  as  she 


LUTLB  MKD'OINIS. 


4f 


k  —  am  much 
Bry  knows 
will  be  here 
I  alone." 
it  warm  lips 
landH  lingered 
ght,  Mrs.  Por- 
y  long ; "  and 
long  breath  of 

ii    comfortable 
id  strong,  and 

Bret  of  Becky 
are  no  guesses, 
It  was  always, 
i,  and  am  per- 
t  which  I  have 
day." 
3ecky  reached 

1  asked,  as  she 


came  in,  and  Becky  answered,  with  a  smile,  "No, 

she's  better." 

Widow  Graf  ham  was  used  to  Becky's  "  double- 
talk  "  as  she  called  it,  so  she  questioned  in  a  quick, 
fearful  tone,  "She  isn't  dead,  is  she?" 

"No;  such  as  she  cannot  Ue,"  was  the  reply. 
Then,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  mother's  face: 
»  She  says  she  is  more  comfortable  than  she  has 
been  for  days;  and  would  rather  be  alone,  as  she 
expects  Dick  soon,  and  wishes  to  talk  with  him." 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  aa  well,"  said  Mrs.  Graf- 
ham,  "seeing  it's  Nev.    i'ear's  Eve.    I'll  run  in 

before  bed-time." 

An  hour  later  Ike  came  in,  with  a  quarter  to 
buy  a  doll,  "with  pink  cheeks  and  truly  hair," 

"I guess  Beulah's  going  to  have  a  New  Year's 
present,"  s/-id  the  widow,  as  the  boy  stood  picking 
for  the  prettiest. 

"No;  it's  Dick's  money,  and  the  doll's  for  Bry," 
was  the  answer,  and  the  widow  felt  reUeved. 
Then  Dick  had  come  home. 

"  Bryony,"  said  the  sick  woman,  feebly,  "  Bry- 
ony, are  you  here?" 


I  /  Q)^^r->!e»tiMui»'' 


»£»'JW.'^««*»'V*'«" 


OUB  8TEBKT. 

"  Yes,  mother ,  don't  you  see  me  ?  " 
"No.    What  makes  you  so  quiet,  child?" 
"  I  thought  p'r'aps  they  had  come,  you  looked 
so  comfortable ;  and  I  didn't  want  to  distuib  you 
if  they  were  talking  to  you." 

Who  has  come?    Who's  talking?    Dick?" 
asked  the  sick  woman,  eagerly. 

No,  mother ;  don't  you  know  ?    The  angels 
you  telled  about.     Will  they  be  here  soon  ?  " 

Yes,  pretty  soon.    Soon  enough  for  you,  poor 
child." 

"Mother,  will  you  tell  me  what  they  say  to 
you  ?  '*  and  the  child  leaned  eagerly  over  the  bed, 
and  fondled  one  thin  hand. 

I  can't,  Bry.  None  can  know  what  they 
say  till  they  hear  them  themselves.' 

"01"  a  little  surprised  ejaculation.  "But  I'll 
see  th'em,  mother?" 

No,  Bry,  you  won't  see  them.  Eyes  that  see 
things  here  can't  see  them.  Nobody  sees  them 
till  they  die." 

"01"  again.  "  How  will  I  know  when  they've 
come?" 


HHfe' 


*ff>m 


t,  child?" 
le,  you  looked 
;o  distuib  you 

ing?    Dick?" 

?    The  angels 
lere  soon?" 
b  for  you,  poor 

at  they  say  to 
Y  over  the  bed, 

ow  what  they 

8.'' 

ion.    "But  I'll 

Eyes  that  see 
)ody  sees  them 

w  when  they've 


LITTLB  MEDCINB. 


# 


The  woman  lifted  one  feeble  hand,  and  smoothed 
the  little  cheek  so  near  her. 

»'  You'll  know,  little  Bry,  because— because— " 
she  spoke  slowly;  "I  can't  see,  or  hear,  or  talk 
with  you  any  more. 
The  blue  eyes  were  wide-spread  in  amazement. 
"Won't  you  ever  talk  any  more,  mother?" 
"Yes,  in  heaven." 

"Are  you  going  away?  _ 

"Yes,  darling." 
"  Am  I  going  too  ?  " 
"No,  not  now."  ,  .'  . 

"When?"  "'   '  '  '     ' 

"When  He  sends  for  you."  . ' 

Then  the  two  were  quiet  for  awhile. 
"  I  wish  Dick  would  come,"  at  length  said  the 
woman,  uneasily.    "  I  vranted.to  say  some  things 
to  him.    I'm  afraid  he'll  be  too  lat«." 

"  He'll  be  here  soon,  I  guess.    P'r'aps  he's  had 

one  of  his  Ul  tuius,"  said  the  child,  innocently. 

"But  somebody il  bring  him  home  if  he   has. 

■Jesus  always  sends  somebody,  don't  he?    Jesu» 

loves  Dick  dearly,  don't  he,  mother  ?  " 


'.'O  ■ 


60 


OUB  BTBEKT. 


The  woman's  flickering  faith  was  revived  by  the 

child's. 

"  Yes,  yes,  He  loves  him.  That's  jny  hope,  my 
precious  little  Medicine." 

"  Mother,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  get  along 
without  me  up  there.      You'll  need  med'cine, 

p'r'aps."  - 

"  And  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  uoither 
sorrow  nor  crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more 
pain ;  for  the  former  things  are  passed  away,' " 
repeated  the  woman  softly,  her  hand  searchLig 
near  her  pillow  for  her  little  worn  Bible.    "  They 
are  never  sick  there.  Bryony.    I  shall  not  need 
even  this  best  medicine,  but  I  will  leave  it  for 
you.    When  you  feel  tired,  or  sick,  or  sorry,  just 
open  it,  and  read  and  pray.    It  will  help  you  live." 
"  Ho  won't  shut  me  out  of  heaven  all  the  time 
'cause  I'm  med'cine?"  now  asked  the  child  fear- 
fully. 

"  No,  no,  little  Bry.  He  sent  you  here  to  do 
some  good.  When  it's  done  then  he'll  send  for 
you  to  go  there.'* 


v»! wi iiwimy  nHtiluilHtiqi  j'yw»iiiw 


.' '  r, 


LTTTLB  MED'OINB. 


m 


revived  by  tlie 

}  jny  hope,  my 

can  get  along 
eed  med'cine, 

death,  uoither 
re  be  any  more 
jassed  away,'" 
land  searchLig 
Bible.    "They 
shall  not  need 
ill  leave  it  for 
k,  or  sorry,  just 
1  help  you  live." 
en  all  the  time 
the  child  fear- 

you  here  to  do 
m  he'll  send  for 


"Why  don't  he  send  for  me  now?    Nodody'U 
want  me  when  you're  gone.    I'm  only  med'ciue, 

you  know." 

"Dick,  Bryony.    Dick  needs  medicine;    and, 
remember,  I  leave  him  to  you.    You  must  love 
him  and  pray  for  him.    Don't  ever  give  him  up, 
and  don't  get  discouraged.    There's  nothing  too 
hard  for  God." 
The  little  girl's  face  cleared  immediate  y. 
"I'll  stay  and  take  care  of  Dick,"  she  said, 
briskly.    "Poor  Dickl  he'd  be  very  lonesome  if 
ha  came  home  and  found  us  both  gone.      He 
wouldn't  know  God  sent  the  angels  for  us.    It's 
better  for  me  to  stay  and  'splain  it  to  him,  and 
then  he'll  know,  if  ever  he  can't  find  me,  that  it's 

my  time." 

The  sick  woman's  lips  quivered  a  little  as  she 
kissed  Bry's  hand,  and  she  turned  on  her  pillow 
BO  as  partly  to  conceal  her  face. 

Little  Bry  settled  herself  back  in  her  chair 
with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"Ill  wateh  sharp,"  she  said  to  herself;  "p'r'aps 
I'U  see  a  little  bit  of  wing  or  somethin'." 


i 


'tt^„,,^W^ir*itk*- 


62 


OUB  BXBEISTt 


It  was  a  long,  quiet  watch.  The  woman  did 
not  move  again,  and  only  an  occasional  long- 
drawn  sigh  told  she  Uved.  E>.m  they  ceased 
after  a  little,  and  the  eyes  closed.  Then,  by-and- 
by,  a  smile  crept  up  the  marble  face.  ^ 
-  The  little  watcher  caught  that  gleam  of  light. 
She  leaned  forward  with  eager  eyes  and  open 
mouth.  "  She's  beginnin'  to  see  or  hear  somethin' 
comfortable,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  as  she  bent 
her  ear  forward. 

But  no  sound  broke  the  stillness.  The  little 
one  listened  in  vain,  so  presently  she  drew  herself 
upon  the  bed,  and  touched  the  sleeper's  face. 
The  chill  surprised  her  a  little,  the  silence  follow- 
ing her  repeated,  gentle  caUs  of  "mother"  did 

not. 

"Yes,  she's  gone,"  she  s^d,  with  a  little  sighj 
«  but  they  didn't  take  all  of  her.  I'm  'most  sure 
she's  hearin'  'em,  though  she  looks  «o." 

She  touched  the  closed  lids.  "I  hope  she  is 
not  blind,"  she  said.  "0,  no  I  that'd  be  sick.  I 
guess  the  angel  touched  her  eyes,  and  they  see 


|iiMJ(>WJ.'it"ili' 


1 


)  woman  did 

sasionsl  long- 

they  ceased 

rhen,  by-and- 

ce.  .  --'    ■ 
.earn  of  ligHt. 
)res  and  open 
lear  somethin' 
If,  as  she  bent 

ts.  The  little 
e  drew  herself 
sleeper's  face, 
iilence  follow- 
" mother"  did 

a  little  sigh ; 
['m  'most  sure 

S   80." 

I  hope  she  is 
t'd  be  sick.  I 
1,  and  they  see 


LITTLB  MBD'OINB.  W 

the  other  way,  like  folks  over  there.  I'm  glad 
»he'»  gone,  only  "  —  she  did  not  cry,  and  tried  to 
speak  bravely,  but  her  Up  quivered— "well,  when 
Dick  gets  over  his  sick  turns,  and  don't  need 
med'cine,  p'r'aps  He'll  send  for  me." 

Widow  Graf  ham  kept  her  word.  She  r.in  in  to 
see  how  Mrs.  Perkins  did  before  she  went  to  bed. 
But  it  was  late,  and  no  one  answered  her  rap. 
She  tried  the  door.  It  was  unfastened,  so  she 
peeped  in.  There  was  no  light  but  that  which  fell 
through  the  windows.  She  could  distinguish  by 
that  the  outUnes  of  two  forms  upon  the  bed,  and 
heard  regular  breathing. 

» They  are  sleeping  quietly,"  she  reported  to 
Letty,  thereby  purchasing  for  her  daughter  the 
sleep  that  must  have  been  forfeited  had  she 
guessed  the  truth. 


HI 


II 


BEEFSTEAK,  BABIES  ASV  DAILT  BBEAD. 

T  T:  THEN  Ike  Hobson  left  Widow  Grafham's 
'  '     shop,  he  unbuttoned  his  old  jacket,  and 
with  almost  motherly  tenderness  folded  the  waxen 
baby  to  his  bosom. 

Buttoning  his  jacket  again  he  crossed  the  yard 
to  the  house  where  Mrs.  Perkins  lay.  Tip-toeing 
past  her  door  he  crept  up-stairs,  fearful  lest  little 
Bry  should  know  his  step  and  wonder  at  his 
neglect  to  give  her  his  usual  "  good-iiight,"  yet 
fearing  still  more,  if  he  did,  her  questionings  of 
Elck. 

Ike  and  his  two  sisters  were  the  offspring  of 
poor  but  godly  parents.    His  feeble  mother  had 
64 


mfmm 


1 


r  BBEAD. 

3W  Grafham's 
Id  jacket,  and 
ded  the  waxen 

•ssed  the  yard 
y.  Tip-toeing 
rful  lest  little 
(Tonder  at  his 
lod-iiight,"  yet 
uestionings  of 

le  ofiFspring  of 
le  mother  had 


BEEFSTEAK,  BABIES  AND  DAILY  BBEAD. 


65 


depended  largely  on  her  mother's  care  of  her 
chUdren  even  whUe  she  Uved,  and  dying  left  them 
to  her  charge.    Within  a  year  Mr.  Hobson,  also,     ^ 
had  passed  away,  and  Granny  Thorpe  was  left  m 
her  old  age  with  three  little  mouths  to  fill,  three 
little  souls  to  nurture. 

u  Her  children,"  she  called  them,  and  truly  her 
arms  had  been  first  to  cradle  them,  her  voice  first 
to  consecrate  them  to  God.  She  had  named 
them,  and  Bible  names  they  surely  were;  Isaac 
Paul,  Hephzibah  and  Beulah.  Dear,  pious  old 
Boull  Quaint  and  uncultured,  was  the  worlds 
verdict;   polished,  and  fit  for  the  Master's  use, 

was  Heaven's.  ^        ^ 

There  was  .n  ."Sterity  to  Granny  Thorpe. 

„Urion.  however,  which  bred  fear  somewhat  m 

Isaac',  heart  as  he  crept  np^tairs;  a  fear  that 

„ade  it  natural  for  him  to  widl  to  hide  the  waxen 

doll  from  sight.  ^    ^ 

It  was  a  four  tenement  house,  and  Granny 
Thorpe's  was  the  large  room  upstairs  on  the  other 
eide  of  the  house  from  Mrs.  Perkins.    The  room 


1 


;;.'tl.l  .V\»1mii«i 


MMMI 


■JML 


W  OITE  8T1SXET. 

right  over  Mrs.  Perkins'  was  occupied  by  a  Mrs. 
Blake  and  her  one  little  girl,  an  Irish  Catholic, 
whom  an  English  Protestant  had  first  married  and 
then  deserted. 

A.8  1-he  little  boy  opened  thf  door  of  his  grand- 
mother's room,  its  cleanliness  and  order  were  very 
striking.  The  floor  was  scrubbed  so  white,  the 
curtains  were  so  fresh,  and  the  large,  four-posted 
bed  ia  the  corner  looked  so  high  and  inviting. 
There  wfts  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  a  good  old-fash- 
ioned fire,  that  sent  flickers  of  light  across  two 
yourg  faces  nestled  amid  the  bed-clothes. 

There  were  two  chairs  and  two  stools,  all  of 
them  as  white  as  the  floor  ;  and  the  table,  with  its 
brass  candlestick  and  sputtering  candle,  was  quite 
as  white  as  these ;  yet  none  of  them  could  compare 
with  the  snowy  locks  just  peeping  out  from  the 
snowy  border  of  Granny  Thorpe's  cap,  as  she  sat, 
spectacles  on,  mending  a  rent  in  an  old  dress. 

There  v^as  a  sudden  stop  in  her  work  as  the 
door  opened,  w:  adjusting  of  the  spectacles,  a 
Btretchirg  out  across  the  table,  and,  as  if    11  theso 


'» 


)ied  by  a  Mrs. 
[rish  Catholic, 
st  married  and 

of  his  grand- 
:der  were  very 

BO  white,  the 
fe,  four-posted 

and  inviting, 
good  old-fash- 
bt  across  two 
slothes. 

stools,  all  of 
table,  with  its 
die,  was  quite 
could  compare 
out  from  the 
ap,  as  she  sat, 
n  old  dress. 

work  as  the 

spectacles,  a 
as  if    11  th^so 


•» 


BBiarSTEAK,  bABIBS  AND  DAILY  BBEAD.       67 

things  did  not  quite  help  her  to  see  perfectly  she 
queried:  '    ' 

"  Is  that  you,  Isaac  ?  " 

"  Yes,  granny."    It  tries  to  be  a  cheerful  voict. 

"How's  the  little  one  and  her  mother  to- 
night?"  and    granny  resumes  her  work  as  she 

questions. 
.  "I  don't  know.  I  haven't  been  in,"  slowly. 
"Haint  ben  in  to  Bry'ny's?  Where  hev  you 
ben,  then?  Now,  Isaac,  I  hope  you  haint  ben 
'companyin'  round  with  enuy  of  them  bad  boys. 
You  know  I  don't  allow  it.  You  hevn't  ben  inter 
evU?"    -      -  -        -'"^     . 

"No,  granny,  I  haven't.    I  wasn't  doing  any 
mischief.    I  was  only  looking  'round." 

"Lookin'  'round  evil  is  n'jxt-door-neighbor  to 
droppin'  in,  and  most  gin'rally  leads  to  it.  I  don't 
want  you  squintin'  and  peepin'  'round  the  devil; 
he'll  gobble  you  up  if  you  do,  in  spite  of  your  old 
granny.  The  first  step  to  evil  is  hankerin'  arter 
it.  Stay  to  hum  nights,  and  read  your  Bibls  — 
that's  better.     But  there,  there  I   don't  feel  so 


...-.il 


^    ^.^       — jjriijL       ■    iA-    '>!i— 


as 


OUR  STREET. 


bad  I  I  ain't  scoldin'.  I  know  you're  purty  good 
—  but  purty  good  isn't  enough  1  It  won't  'deliver 
us  from  evil'j  '-t  takes  God's  grace  to  do  that. 
Your  potato's  in  the  bake  kettle,  'side  the  coals, 
and  a  slice  of  bread.  I  thought  I'd  keep  it 
Trann." 

Ike  drew  a  stool  close  to  the  hearth,  and  sat 
down  with  his  back  to  his  grandmother.  He ' 
poked  his  fingers  between  his  jacket  biittons  till 
he  felt  the  waxen  face,  and  sighed,  relieved  that 
it  had  not  vanished.  He  ate  his  potato  and  bread 
as  if  it  tasted  good,  and  took  a  second  peep  into 
the  bake-kettle,  as  if  another  dose  would  not  be 
altogether  ungrateful;  but  all  this  time  he  was 
thinking  briskly. 

"  I'm  not  deceiving  granny,  'cause  I  don't  mean 
to.  It's  Dick's  secret,  and  it  would  be  mean  to 
tell  it ;  but  I  wish  I  hadn't,  gone  over  to  the  Oaks. 
I  knew  they'd  be  waiting  for  him,  and  I  thought 
I  could  get  him  home ;  but  I  couldn't,  and  it  would 
make  her  feel  bad  if  she  knew  I  danced  with 
them.    I  wish  I  hadn't  gone.    Then  I  couldn't 


l|.jl|llll<lll«««illH>IIIIIJ»llll'UM»«'"' 


*re  purty  good 
won't  'deliver 
Be  to  do  that, 
lide  the  coals, 
t  I'd  keep  it 

learth,  and  sat 
dmother.  He  * 
et  buttons  till 
,  relieved  that 
tato  and  bread 
3ond  peep  into 
would  not  be 
time  he  was 

3 1  don't  mean 
1  be  mean  to 
!r  to  the  Oaks, 
and  I  thought 
't,  and  it  would 
I  danced  with 
en  I  couldn't 


BREMTBAK,  BABIES  AND  DAILY  BBEAD.       69 

tell  Bry  anything  if  she  did  ask,  and  I  n^ight  have 
helped  make  her  forget  and  be  happy.  O  dearl 
but  then  — I  didn't  know." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Thorpe's  voice  disturbed  his 

cogitations. 

u  Jetty  was  in  to  see  if  you'd  help  her  on  her 

'rithmetic." 
Ike  scowled, 
u  0,1  don't  want  to.    I'm  tired.    She's  always 

wauting  help." 

»*And  Isaac  Hobson  never  wants  enny  help, 
and  Jesus  never  gits  tired  of  helpin'  him,  and  it 
was  very  easy  and  nice  to  die  for  him." 

Granny  wasn't  half  through  before  Ike  was  on 
his  feet,  hat  in  hand.  To  see  duty,  with  him,  was 
generally  to  do  it.  Granny's  face  shone.  She 
was  proud  of  her  boy.  But  ere  he  reached  the 
door  she  asked,  suddenly,  "  Did  you  see  anythmg 
of  Dick,  Isaac?    Was  he  paid  of?  to-night,  do  you 

know  ?  " 

Ike's  face  was  crimsoning. 

"Yes,  granny,  he's  paid  off,  I  guess- 1  know 


r 


99  OUB  BTBRBT. 

—  'cause  —  oauM"  —  strange  he  hit  the  exact 
thing  he  wished  to  cover  —  "  cause  he  said  he  was 
going  to  get  l\ty  a  doll." 

"  Doll  I "  said  the  old  lady,  contemptuously. 
"Doll I    He'd  better  git  her  a  little  beefsteak!" 

Poor,  guilty  Ike!  Surely  he  felt  that  little 
waxen  thing  under  his  jacket  start.  Was  it  all 
the  throbbing  of  his  own  heart,  or  did  that  tiny 
thing  possess  dormant  life,  roused  suddenly  to 
action  ?  He  betook  himself  to  the  entry,  while  his 
breath  came  fast. 

"  Beefsteak ! "  ho  whispered ;  "  beefsteak !  Why, 
it  would  all  be  eaten  up,  and  that  would  be  the 
end  of  it ;  but  this  —  O,  I  knew  she  wouldn't 
understand  —  perhaps  'cause  it's  so  many  years 
since  she  was  little." 

It  was  only  a  few  steps  across  the  hall,  but  it 
took  Ike  quite  a  w;hile  to  get  over  them.  He 
stepped  back  once  to  his  own  door,  to  tell  his 
grandmother  not  to  sit  up  if  she  was  tired,  for 
"  p'r'aps  Jetty  had  lots  to  be  done,  and  she  wasn't 
very  quick."  Then  he  slowly  crossed  the  hall, 
and  opened  a  door  Ccutiously. 


mm 


mmmmmmmmft^='  '"■* 


I 


lit  tho  exact 
he  said  he  was 

ntemptuously. 
le  beefsteak  I " 
i\t  that  little 
;.  Was  it  all 
did  that  tiny 
.  suddenly  to 
atry,  while  hia 

fsteakl  Why, 
would  be  the 
she  wouldn't 
3  many  years 

6  hall,  but  it 
ar  them.  He 
ir,  to  tell  his 
vas  tired,  for 
id  she  wasn't 
sed  the  hall, 


BEBFaXEAK,  BABIES  AHB  DAILY  BEEAD.      61 

•Hie  room  was  both  like  and  unlike  the  one  he 
had  just  left.  Like  it  in  size  and  papering,  unlike 
it.  Indeed,  in  a  lack  of  every  comfort,  in  its  utter 
destitution  and  uncleanliness. 

Before  tho  hearth,  on  an  old  rug,  a  girl's  form 
reclined,  one  arm  under  her  head,  in  careless 
gracefulness.  She  did  not  move  when  the  door 
opened,  or  speak  when  Ike  pronounced  her  name; 
yet  that  she  was  not  sleeping  was  evident,  since 
lier  black  eyes  sparkled  and  glinted  under  the  fire- 
light. 

"Jetty,  are  you  alone?"  again  said  the  boy, 
and  now  she  answered,  saucily: 

"  Yes.  The  old  lady's  ofif  celebratin'  the  New 
Year  in  whisky,  I  s'pose.  Needn't  be  scared,  any- 
way,  sonny ;  I  wouldn't  let  her  hurt  a  dear  littie 
fellow  like  you." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  her!**  said  the  boy,  indig- 
nantly.   *'  You  ought  to  know  that  1    I've  saved 
you  from  her  often  enough.    But  I  knew  it  wasn't 
auy  use  to  try  to  study  if  she  was  here." 
"  You're  speakin'  of  my  mother,  sir  1 "    As  Jetty 


mt:' 


■WilW" 


62 


OUB  8TBEET. 


Blake  lifted  her  head,  one  saw,  even  by  such  dim 
light,  that  she  would  have  been  beautiful  if  —  she 
had  been.  The  black  eyes  were  very  brillian*, 
the  brows  dark  and  arched,  the  blaok  hair  very 
glossy,  the  mouth  full,  the  nose  perfectly  formed. 
Yet  no  one  ever  dreamed  of  calling  her  even 
pretty.  The  whole  face  bore  such  a  forlorn,  dis- 
contented, care -for -naught  aspect,  that  beauty 
could  not  have  recognized  it  as  her  work. 

When  she  said,  "  You're  speakin'  of  my  mother, 
sir  I "  she  meant  to  be  very  dignified ;  instead  of 
which  she  -wus  intensely  silly,  and  Ike  laughed 
while  he  said,  "  But  I  only  spoke  the  truth,  Jetty, 
and  you  know  it." 

Miss  Jetty  saw  fit  not  to  answer  this,  but  de- 
manded, rather  suddenly:  '-What  do  you  want 
in  here,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  Jet  I  Didn't  you  come  in  after  me  to 
help  you  with  your  examples  ?  Granny  said  so, 
and  that's  why  I  came." 

"  O,  the  good  little  boy !  the  dear  little  boy  I 
He's  an  obedient  little  fellow,  ain't  he  ?    How  his 


■wi? 


■nr 


n  by  such  dim 
lutiful  if  —  she 
very  brillian*, 
laok  hair  very 
rfectly  formed, 
lling  her  even 
.  a  forlorn,  dis- 
fc,  that  beauty 
er  work. 
'  of  my  mother, 
Red ;  instead  of 
d  Ike  laughed 
le  truth,  Jetty, 

sr  this,  but  de- 
;  do  you  want 

in  after  me  to 
rranny  said  so, 

[ear  little  boy  I 
he  ?    How  his 


BEEFSTEAK,  BABIES  AND  DAILY  BREAD.      63 

grandmother  does  crow  about  him,  though.    He 
never  gets  tired  of  helping  poor  sinners,  O  nol" 
» I'll  not  help  you  if  you  don't  stop  1    I'm  sure 
I  didn't  want  to." 

«  O  1  you  didn't  ?    Then  why  is  the  little  fellow 
here?    To  please  his  dear  old  granny,  I  s'pone. 
Don't  I  wish  I  was  pious  1    I  wonder  how  I'd 
become  it.    it's  terrible  for  such  sinners  as  mother 
and  me  to  live  in  the  same  house  with  the  holy 
whiners.    There's  the  little  saint  and  big  saint 
downstairs  — if  the  big  one  hain't  got  her  wings 
yet.    And  the  old-hen  saint  up-stairs,  with  her 
two  little  pious  pullets,  and  her  little  white  rooster ! 
Dear  little  clean  things !    It's  so  liard  fox  them  to 
live  so  close  to  a  jetty  sinner,  who  spits  over  the 
bannister  into  their  water-pail,  and  occasionally 
helps  herself  to  one  of  the  dear  Uttle  pullet's  shoe- 
strings  when  she  needs  one  very  much  herself  1" 
All  this  was  said  very  fast,  with  various  sneers 
and  grimaces,  and  Ike  took  his  hat  to  go. 

"No  you  don't,  little  rooster!    I'm  too  smart 
for  youl"    and   Jetty,  springing  to    the    door. 


i^WB 


. !  iJ,SJJPBi|Di.affl||!W 


64 


OUB  STBEST. 


-.,;  A^i^i  '■.. 


locked  it,  laughing  uproariously  as  she  put  the 
key  in  her  pocket.  .  .    . ,     -%  ■ 

"  Poor  little  fellow !  If  he  flaps  his  wings  very 
hard  and  crows  loud,  p'r'aps  the  old-hen  saint  will 
hear  him  —  if  she  isn't  too  deaf — and  come  to 
deliver  him  —  if  she  can.  And  she  don't  allow 
him  to  go  with  black  roosters,  for  fear  a  little  ink 
from  their  quills  might  soil  his  white  feathers. 
But  he's  got  legs,  the  dear  little  fellow,  and  can't 
he  go  it,  though  I "  and  suddenly  Miss  Jetty 
struck  an  attitude,  and,  flinging  her  hands  into 
imaginary  pockets,  set  up  a  break-down. 

Ike's  first  feeling  was  fear  lest  she  had  discov- 
ered his  secret,  his  next  was  uncontrollable  mirth ; 
and  he  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh.  This  seemed  to 
please  the  girl.  When  she  stopped  beside  him, 
every  vestige  of  disturbance  was  driven  from  her 
countenance.  ,      -    . 

"Can't  I  do  it  well?"  she  asked.  "I  knew  I 
could  beat  you  if  I  tried.  I'd  a-mind  to  when 
Dick  put  up  the  quarter.  If  it  hadn't  been  you  I 
would.  I'm  sorry  I  didn't,  now.  Why  shouldn't 
I  have  a  doll?"  .      . 


: 


BEEFSTEAK,  BABIES  AND  DAILY  BBEAD.      66 


she  put  tlie 

lia  wings  very 
-hen  saint  will 
-and  come  to 
e  don't  allow 
)ar  a  little  ink 
hite  feathers, 
low,  and  can't 
y  Miss  Jetty 
er  hands  into 
)wn. 

le  had  discov- 
oUable  mirth ; 
rhis  seemed  to 
d  beside  him, 
iven  from  her 

I.    "I  knew  I 

aind  to  when 
n't  been  you  I 
iVhy  shouldn't 


Ike's  face  was  a  study.  "  O,  Jetty,  don't  tell  \ 
G/anuy  wUl  feel  so  bad,  and  I  only  went  to  ^et 
him  home." 

"  Give  me  the  doll  and  I  won't  1 "  she  said, 

coaxingly. 

"No,  I  will  notl  never  I" 

"  Then  I'll  tell,  or  keep  you  locked  up  here  all 

night!" 

'  "I  don't  care  if  you  do  I  You  shan't  have  it  I 
It's  nothing  wrong.  Granny  won't  scold.  If  it's 
wrong  I'd  rather  she'd  know  it." 

"01  would  you  ?  The  little  white  rooster  told 
Widow  Graf  ham  a  lie  1 " 

"I  didn't!" 

"You  did!    I  heard  you!"       , 

"I  know  I  did  not.  The  doll  is  for  Bryony, 
and  the  money  belonged  to  Dick." 

"What  did  you  hide  it  for?" 

Ike  hesitated.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  define, 
much  more  explain  these  finer  feelings  to  another, 
such  another  as  Jetty  Blake. 

"I  didn't  want  anyone  to  see  it,  because,  you 


.i.~-.^.^i.».^ 


1 


^m 


Mi 


«t 


OXTB  BTBEET. 


know,  it  wasn't  mine  ;  and  I  had  no  right  to  look 
at  or  fjhow  off  what  didn't  belong  to  me.    And  — 
and  — I  didn't  want  anyone  to  see  it  till  he  did." 
"Who?" 

"Why,  Dick.  It's  his,  you  know." 
"The  money  was  yours." 
"  No,  it  was  Dick's  for  Uttle  Bry.  You  see  you 
can't  give  away  a  thing  twice,  and  he  gave  it  once 
to  little  Bry's  doll.  So  it  was  hers,  or,  rather,  the 
doll's  — no.  Widow  Graf  ham's,  I  mean;  and  the 
doll  was  hers  when  he  gave  it  to  her." 

Those  black,  black  eyes,  how  they  searched  his 
face;  hoi?  they  brightened  as  they  searched. 
"  And  it  ain't  from  you  ?  " 
"No;  it's  from  Dick." 
"And  she  won't  know?" 
"No,  never;  unless  you  tell  her.    O,  please 
don't,  Jetty  I  it'd  take  all  the  good  from  it." 

"  Ketch  me  at  it  1  What  d'ye  think  I  am  ?  O, 
but  you  are  good,  ain't  you?  And  I  don't  want 
the  doUl  I'd  ruther  she'd  hev  it— and  — and 
there ! "  and  Miss  Blake  put  a  smucking  kiss  on 
Ike's  face,  emphatically. 


^;-^.4m.*'..-i(filli'i/-»»jL,w   '-^ 


right  to  look 
(  me.  And  — 
t  till  he  did." 

.  You  see  you 
lie  gave  it  once 
,  or,  rather,  the 
mean ;  and  the 
i  her." 

ey  searched  his 
Y  searched. 


■UOrSTSAK,  BABIES  AND  DAILY  BBEAD. 


67 


ler.  O,  please 
od  from  it." 
aink  I  am  ?  O, 
nd  I  don't  want 
it  —  and  —  and 
i&cking  kiss  on 


^  U^i^X.  .'.'iM'>.i'-ii4k.ijbfiM| 


She  walked  to  the  door  then  and  unlocked  it. 

"  You  cai>  go  when  you're  a  mind  to,"  she  said. 
"  And  you  needn't  teach  me  the  sums,  nuther,  if 
you  don't  want  to,  and  I'll  not  be  mad." 

"I  want  to  stay  and  help  you,"  he  said. 

"Why?" 

"Because  He  would.'* 

"Who?" 

"Jesus." 

"01"  prolonged.  "They're  the  same  uns  I 
had  afore.  I  couldn't  learn  'em.  I'm  dull;  she 
says  80  —  teacher." 

"You  wouldn't  be  if  you  tried.  Dull  people 
don't  have  bright  eyes,"  said  *ke ;  and  after  that 
they  went  to  work  in  earnest. 

Ike  dreamed  that  night  that  Jetty  gave  Bry's 
doH  to  Granny  Thorpe,  and  that  it  had  turned  to 
beefsteak,  which  she  was  frying  up  for  breakfast! 

When  Dick  came  home,  late  that  night,  he  was 
too  much  intoxicated  to  think  anything  about  his 
mother  or  sister,  too  stupid  to  pull  out  hia  bed 


«r 


68 


OUB  8TBEET. 


'.I"'''  'I'.i'.t^'f.*^-. 


from  under  his  mother's.    Instead,  he  threw  him- 
self into  Bry's  chair,  and  fell  asleep.   ^    : 

The  gray  dawn  wjw  creeping  into  the  window 
when  he  awoke,  a  strange  sense  of  dread  upon 
him.  His  opening  eyes  met  the  bed,  and  the  gray 
light  revealed  and  heightened  the  ghastliness  of 
the  faces  there.  Something  in  the  sharp  outlines 
of  his  mother's  face  —  something  only  associated 
with  death  —  smote  him  with  great  fear;  and  the 
longer  he  gazed  the  stronger  this  grew. 

He  tried  to  throw  the  feeling  off,  to  lay  it  to 
the  effect  of  Jenkins'  poor  whisky:  "it  always 
serves  me  so,"  he  said,  rising  and  going  to  the 
stove.  He  worked  very  quietly,  and  soon  a  cheer- 
ful fire  was  sending  its  warmth  through  the  room ; 
but  the  bed  held  a  strange  fascination  for  him,  and 
before  he  was  aware  he  stood  beside  it  again. 

"  I  believe  they're  both  dead ! "  he  groaned, 
stooping  and  touching  Bry's  face. 

The  touch,  light  as  it  was,  roused  the  sleeper, 
and  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"  O,  Dicky  boy  1  is  it  you  ?  "  she  chirped.    "  I'm 


r    Mir^til^^^' 


r*-i«tW»»«^j^  •Vic.1et-j^-X!rUt^!ksl£!M^  ^'-imt"^  fa-ywiJM^J^^J^' 


m,iJ^&Miii,'iA\fiAmi-**^Mi^Ai^^ 


<4RP 


le  threw  him' 
p.  ^\  '■  r: 
0  the  window 
f  dread  upon 
,  and  the  gray 
ghastliness  of 
)harp  outlines 
nly  associated 
fear ;  and  the 
grew. 

f,  to  lay  it  to 
r:  "it  always 
[  going  to  the 
d  soon  a  cheer- 
ugh  the  room ; 
}n  for  him,  and 
lide  it  again. 
'  he  groaned, 

3d  the  sleeper, 

5hirped.    "I'm 


BEEFSTEAK,  BABIES  AND  DAILY  BBEAD. 


69 


glad  you've  come !    I  thought  you  must  have  had 
an  ill  turn!"        :.    ,  ,  - 

But  Dick's  eyes  wandered  uneasily  to  his  moth- 
er's face.         :    "  ■••;;.■,■.;■'.:■.."!.     >:■  <   '■ 

"Has  she  been  worse?"  he  asked  huskily. 

"O,  no.  But"  —  a  shadow  creeping  over  the 
child's  face  —  "  she's  gone.  They  came  for  her  — 
the  angels;  but  they  left  some  of  her  for  you  to 
see."       .  '-...';  -'  ■■>  -  ''•■''  -■  ■   r>_   r-,;-- :-:-     :.-r' 

The  lad  groaned;  and,  sitting  down,  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands.  His  little  sister  crept  to  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  and  placed  a  hand  on  his  bowed 
head.    He  lifted  himself  then,  and  took  her  in  his 

arms.        -.;.  ^^'  I:  ■;;.,->- ''J^'^         -'^    r'^-ir;,'-r\      -^jr:,- 

"  O,  little  Bry ! "  he  sobbed.  « If  I'd  only  come 
home  1  Now  she'll  never  speak  to  me,  or  say  she 
forgives  me."    -''."s.-?  ■■  ,■:.•;.■:,  ,:v^  .■• ' 

«  But  she  does,  just  the  same.  And  she  left  me, 
you  know.    You're  glad  I  didn't  go,  too,  Dicky, 

ain't  you?"        -  ' 

"Gladl"  he  hugged  her  tightly.  "I'd  have 
died  myself  if  you  had  gone,  Bryony." 


dlMM>^b««A»^l;^tii^4SSi^^^^ 


-HPi--«i^sniiiiM 


70 


Or»  STREET. 


"  There  I "  she  said,  triumphantly.  "  You  see 
He  did  know  best.  I  wanted  to  go,  at  fire',  but 
yrtother  said  it  wasn't  time  for  .ae  yet.  ^'.ad  God 
1  /es  you,  Dick,  8  id  I'm  always  going  to  take 
caio  of  you,  and  not  get  'scouraged." 

Poor  Dick  groaned  afresh  at  this.  "  The  mon- 
ey's all  spent,  Bry,"  he  said. 

"  But  you're  not  sick,  Dick,  and  you  can  earn 
some  more,  can't  you  ?  "  she  answered. 

"  Yes,  bless  you  I  so  I  can,  little  Medicine,"  he 
8a4d,  kissing  her. 

"  Yes.  I'm  your  med'cine  now ;  that's  what  I 
stayed  for." 

*'  And  I,"  said  Dick,  solemnly,  "  I  will  be  your 
Daily  Bread,  God  helping  me  I " 


..,.,'-iA*«sa.v.'w 


^T'feirtw»»^*^*i^-''' 


tm 


tmmm 


y.    "You  see 

[o,  at  fire*,  but 

3t.     And  God 

going  to  take 

ed." 

.    "  The  non- 

you  can  earn 
Bred. 
Medicine,"  he 

that's  what  I 

[  will  be  your 


CHAPTER  V. 

HAPPEliri^''8. 

.i/^  DEAR  I  the  world's  full  of  happenin's,  auu 

VJ    a  body  never  knows    when    they'll   "  i 

plunged  right  inter  one  of  'eml"  groaned  Nur  -^ 

Adams,  of  Our  Street,  as  she  added  ^  spoonful  of 

cream  to  her  cup  of  oolong  that  very  morning. 

u  Just  to  think  on  itl    That  poor  little  creetur  all 

alone  with  the  dead  I    It's  awful  1    My  nerves  Ls 

all  unstrung ;  but  then,  I  must  git  over,  and  help 

a  leetle.    Poor  Bry'ny !  I  s'pose  she'll  hev'  to  take 

to  the  poor-house,  now." 

Nurse  did  "  git  over  "  ;  but  "  poor  Bry  ny  "  was 
taking  breakfast  with  Hephzibah  and  Beulah  by 


'W?^ 


72 


OUB  8TRBBT. 


that  time,  and  Mrs.  Graf  ham  and  Granny  Thorp* 
were  layiag  out  the  dead. 

Garrulous  old  Nurse  Adams  got  little  out  of 
these  women  to  increase  her  stock  of  news. 

"  Yes,  Dick  was  here  when  she  went,"  Widow 
Graf  ham  affirmed,  "  for  he  sent  in  after  a  doll  for 
Bry  quite  early  in  the  evening.  Poor  thing  1  she 
went  off  very  peacefully  !  Bryony  says  she  did 
not  speak  or  groan — only  smiled." 

There  was  a  good  deal  said  that  day  as  to  how 
the  child  should  be  disposed  of ;  but  the  women 
did  not  agree  with  Nurse  Ada  oas  in  sending  her 
to  the  pOor-house.  Granny  very  decidedly  op- 
posed the  poor-house.  Widow  Graf  ham  thought 
its  inhabitants  better  off  than  many  of  the  poor 
al>out  them,  but  said:  "If  Dick  wishes  to  support 
his  sister,  it  will  be  better  for  him,  and  not  so 
lonely  for  her.  He  can  easily  pay  his  rent,"  she 
continued,  "  and  as  to  her  bite,  few  of  us  would 
miss  it." 

Of  course,  in  all  this,  not  a  \i'ord  had  been  said 
to  Bryony,  but  Nurse  Adams  made  bold  to  men- 
tion it  to  her  before  the  day  ecded. 


;.'.j-,..-:i>-  i,v..i/;":G';"^1ES^«*fit»-. ''■.^«-^4i>^^t.Vil.r  !ij%i. 


.1.  -flttitWi^ .  -  «*1»- 


mttK 


HAPPENIN'8. 


78 


ranny  Thorpe 

• 

little  out  of 
of  news, 
ent,"  Widow 
fter  a  doll  for 
3T  thing  I  she 
says  she  did 

lay  as  to  how 
t  the  women 
I  sending  her 
decidedly  op- 
ham  thought 
y  of  the  poor 
es  to  support 
,  and  not  so 
iis  rent,"  she 
of  us  would 

lad  been  said 
bold  to  men- 


Mis  Dick  going?"  asked  the  child,  innocently. 

"  No.  They'd  not  keep  a  strong,  likely  feller 
like  him  hangin'  'round." 

"  O,  well,  I  go  where  he  does.  I'm  his  med'- 
cine,  you  know.    He  couldn't  get  along  without 

me. 

"  That  won't  feed  you,"  persisted  Nurse  Adams. 
"  Better  look  out  for  your  daily  bread," 

"Dick's  my  Daily  Bread,"  said  Bry,  simply. 

*«  Dick  1  humph  1  hope  you  won't  lack  it  when 
most  needed.  A  broken  reed  i )  Dick  Perkins  to 
depend  on.    What'll  you  do  when  he's  spreein' 

'round?"  ' 

The  child's  face  was  full  of  earnest  questioning. 
"Do  you  mean  his  ill  turns?"  she  asked,  inno- 
cently. "They  don't  last  very  long,  but  that's 
just  the  reason  I  couldn't  leave  him,  or  mother 
would  have  taken  me  with  her.  I'm  his  med'cine, 
and  God  will  help  me  cure  him.  Mother  said  Ho 
could  do  anything." 

There  was  something  in  that  child  which  made 
it  Impossible  for  even  Nurse  Adams  to  undeceive 
her  as  to  Dick's  habits,  so  she  said  no  more. 


«rTtjK.>«i..rt*«iit».  ■  ■ 


ii-.&«T»t,  ■**«*;(*•   MP 


^mmm^' 


mm^ 


74 


OUB  8TREKT. 


The  room  wh^re  his  mother  died  was  haunted 
with  terrible  memories  for  Dick  Perkins,  so  he 
rented  two  rooms  across  the  street ;  or,  rather,  a 
good-ftized  room  and  a  large  closet  which  would 
hold  his  bed.  The  tenement  was  on  the  ground 
floor,  ntixt  to  Hudworth's ;  and  though  it  was  a 
severe  trial  to  little  Bry  to  leave  this  loved  room, 
she  made  no  obiection,  and  they  were  soon  moved 
over. 

Great  had  been  Letty  Sawyer's  indignat'on  that 
anyone  should  think  of  sending  little  Dry  to  the 
poor-house. 

"  I  won't  see  her  suffer,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  was 
thinking,  mother,  that  my  old  brown  dress  would 
make  her  quite  a  respectable  one.  I'm  going  to 
ask  EUice  Mason  to  help  me  make  it  up ; "  and  she 
did. 

EUice  Mason  was  our  dressmaker,  and  had 
rooms  just  the  other  side  of  Dick's  new  homf ,  up 
over  Hudwort'n's.  She  readily  consented  to  make 
the  dreas;  ano.  t'uly  Bry's  eyes  shone  with  de- 
light when,  arrayed  in  her  new  gtirment,  she  sur- 
veyed her  new  home. 


;..-.3H:!*tea*a*:.^«>j4C-" 


-'■>irt(i***4^S!  ii-*»v*rt»iW4:»«  ■^Ai  «->.■;»  *'. 


'.i>«t>:>*l*B*A«M«UMt.iH£dWARB04»  f  c^n^«..iMi>tU&»M^ 


m 


was  haunted 
'erkins,  ho  he 
;  or,  rather,  a 

which  would 
II  the  ground 
)ugh  it  was  a 
»  loved  room, 
re  soon  moved 

dignat'on  that 
le  Dry  to  the 

[ ;  "  and  I  was 

n  dress  would 

I'm  going  to 

b  up ; "  and  she 

iker,  and  had 
new  homf ,  up 
rented  to  nlake 
shone  with  de- 
rment,  she  sur- 


happenin's. 


76 


New.  In  more  senses  than  one ;  for  Widow  Graf- 
ham  had  found  a  better  table,  that  she  could 
spare,  Kiddy  Langdou  two  nice  rugs,  and  calico 
from  the  shop  had  covered  the  rocking-chair  anew, 
and  furnished  a  coverlid  for  the  bed. 

"  To  think ! "  said  Bry.  "  And  the  sun  does 
come  in  that  window  a  little  while  every  day  he's 
out,  and  it  i»  comfortable." 

It  was  a  little  lonely  at  first,  but  not  as  bad  as 
it  would  have  been  but  for  that  marvellous  waxen 
baby,  for  wliich  she  made  countless  garments  out 
of  bits  of  cloth  furnished  by  EUice  and  the  Graf- 
hams.    Then  one  window  nearly  faced  the  widow's 
shop;  that  was  pleasant,  for  she  could  watch  the 
comers  and  goers  when  weary  of  everything  else. 
The  New  Year,  as  if  taking  the  advice  of  his 
predecessor,  had  really  begun  in  earnest  for  him- 
self,  and  the  snow  lay  in  great  banks  beside  the 
walks.    Ike  would  have  been  a  millionnaire,  surely, 
if  all  the  shovelfuls  of  snow  he  tossed  that  first 
week  in  January  had  been  gold. 

He  visited  Bryony  as  often  as  possible.    Snow 


urMHITII  Til  Ib'i      0titk(\£\l\\!'    *4PI 


•(W 


rgi'iiguinn'. 


<£"'"lll 


76 


OtTB  STREET. 


made  his  business  driving  for  a  whUe,  the  same 
snow  that  housed  his  sisters  because  of  lack  of 
sound  shoes. 

"  I  shovelled  snow  for  Dr.  Fosby  this  morning," 
said  Ike  one  e\  ^ning,  with  all  the  dignity  one 
might  suppose  would  attach  to  that  office. 

"Did  you?"  admiringly.  Ike  was  always  a 
hero  to  her.  "  What  does  he  look  like  ?  Is  he 
tall  and  splendid,  Ike?" 

"  Yes,  he  is ;  but  it  wasn't  him  that  paid  me. 
It  was  the  man.  I've  seen  him  often,  though ;  he 
drives  past  here  sometimes." 

"I  wish  I  could  see  him.  I'd  like  to  ask  him 
about  Bryony.  You  know  mother  only  thought 
it  was  one  of  the  names  used  by  her  doctor  for 
med'cine.  It  must  be  nice  to  have  a  doctor  of 
your  own.    Mother  had,  once." 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Bry,  I'll  ask  him,  if  you 
want  to  know  very  much,"  said  Ike,  bravely, 
though  not  without  inward  quakings  at  the 
thought  of  the  temerity  of  approaching  the  great 
mftn. 


iii'^.'iii  .■*i>','*t/f'"'iiSt?V«^~''"^'«f^'i--'^'^'^ 


:.^---^^-^-iiit'&r.'K^-.'i.i3!M*rft'*M«BMS*^''-5>*^*^ 


mm 


lile,  the  same 
use  of  lack  of 

this  morning," 
e  dignity  one 
it  office, 
was  always  a 
k  like?    Is  he 

that  paid  me. 
sn,  though ;  he 

ke  to  ask  him 
p  only  thougM 
her  doctor  for 
ve  a  doctor  of 

sk  him,  if  you 

Ike,  bravely, 

hkings   at    the 

hing  the  great 


happenin's. 

"Will  you,  Ikey?"  admiringly.  "What  a 
dear,  good,  comfortable  Ike  you  are.  It  would  be 
nice,  you  know,  to  be  sure  I'm  med'cine." 

So  when  Dr.  Fosby  came  down  his  steps  next 
morning  a  small  urchin  waylaid  him.  - 

"  What  now  ?  "  he  asked,  whimsically,  stopping 
short.      "Didn't  Ned  pay  you,  you  rascal?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  —  if  you  please,  sir,  I'd  like  to 
ask  you  a  question,  if  you've  got  time." 

"  Got  time  1    I've  got  all  there  Is ;  but  suppose 

I  haven't  and  don't  please?      Out  with  it,  you 

young  monkey.     What  are  you  staring  at?" 

"  Please,  sir,  is  Bryony  med'cine  ?    She'd  like  to 

know." 

"What  she?    Bryony?" 

'•Yes,  sir." 

The  doctor  was  quite  taken  aback  by  this  unex- 
pected answer,  yet  he  said,  jocosely,  "What  is 
she?  plant  or  jalop?" 

"  She's  Bryony  Perkins ;  and  she's  lame,  and 
would  like  to  know  if  she's  truly  med'cine." 

"Well,  that  depends;  how  does  she  look?" 
said  the  doctor,  a  twinkle  in  his  blue  t/e. 


S«3^^<gtt»li>>':'-r-?**ii-ii*ii^i;  '" 


^^ .:'V.jSH»JiWWBai!a»<.''<"WW»wS  "mm* m»m  nmrnw-msees. 


«r 


^■tiuemfim 


78 


OUE  STREET. 


"  She's  pale  and  thin,  and  not  very  pretty ;  but 
she's  as  good  and  sweet  as  —  as  sugar." 

"  She  homeopathic,  you  young  dog.  Zounds  1 
to  insult  a  man  before  his  own  premises  I  Sweet, 
is  she  ?  sweet  1  I  wouldn't  give  it  to  a  cat. 
Come  1  what's  the  matter  with  you  now  ?  "  draw- 
ing on  his  riding  gloves.  "  I'm  a  good  mind  to 
make  medicine  out  of  you,  or  —  a  doctor.  What 
do  you  say  t-o  that?  hey,  sir?  Would  you  like  to 
come  and  study  medicine  with  me,  and  get  all  the 
homeopath  shaken  out  of  you?" 

Two  very  bright  eyes  looked  up  to  the  big 
man's,  inquiringly : 

"Do  you  mean  it,  sir?" 

"  Mean  it !  What  next,  you  jackanapes  ?  Hint 
that  J  ever  say  what  I  don't  mean  I  Of  course  I 
mean  it  1 "  The  doctor  stepped  into  his  sleigh 
and  took  his  reins. 

He  saw  the  lad  put  one  hana  up  over  nis  mouth 
quickly. 

"  Corking  up  ?  afraid  of  running  over  ?  is  that 
it?"  he  said,  laughing.     "I  haven't  struck  you 


%.^.-3iiaM«»^'-  .  l-<».4«*M^'*';i)^*wiHS'«Sf i^^ 


■pp 


k  yirnT'--"*™"" '^*'"  *^ 


.dMtadHMMMlrilii 


■MP 


wmm 


happbkin's. 


79 


ry  pretty ;  but 
ir." 

og.  Zounds  1 
aises !  Sweet, 
I  it  t;0  a  cat. 
now  ?  "  draw- 
good  mind  to 
loctor.  What 
lid  you  like  to 
Eind  get  all  the 

ap  to  the  big 


anapes  ?  Hint 
I  Of  course  I 
into  his  sleigh 

over  nis  mouth 

J  over?  in  that 
in't  struck  you 


dumb,  have  I?  Coma,  I  thought  theiw  was  great 
talk,  a  while  since,  of  my  precious  time,  you 
humbug  1 " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  speak  too  quick.  You're  very, 
very  good  I  I  thank  you,  sir;  but  — but  — 
there's  granny,  and  Hepzy,  and  Beul,  and— I 
guess  I  can't,  yet,  sir,  not  until   I    get   more 

money." 

What  a  ringing,  hearty  laugh  Dr.  Fosby's  was  1 
"You're  sensible,  if  you  are  small  potatoes.  A 
wonder  some  of  the  rest  of  us  didn't  think  of  it. 
It's  a  deal  easier  to  bring  money  into  this  business 
than  to  get  it  out  of  it.  Well,  remember,  young 
man,  I'm  ready  when  you  are.  Good-morning. 
O,  by-the-by,  tell  Bryony  she's  just  the  right  sort 
when  administered  properly;"  and  the  sleigh 
disappeared. 

But,  not  many  days  after,  the  eccentric  old 
physician  made  his  way  into  Bry's  territory.  He 
introduced  himself,  and  smiled  at  the  rounding 
out  of  her  eyes  at  the  appearance  of  a  real  doctor. 
"This  is  little  Bryony,  the  little  med'cine?" 
he  said,  quizzically. 


an  !«««»»«i»»)i*<»-»»i»«li*'  ■■■■ 


RHR' 


imJl»lBI!IBHy,U.I.Jilr(aaJiag»«i 


I  iiimi 


80 


OXTB  SIjAEEX. 


"  Yes,  sii^  and  I'm  so  glad  you  came.  I  never 
saw  a  truly  doctor  before.  You  are  very  kind  to 
take  the  time.  It  must  be  very  comfortabl-  V>  be 
a  doctor ;  you  just  live  to  make  folks  well,  don't 
you,  sir?"  .  ^  ,-,,  .,  .,.;^  ...        ..,  o, 

"  That  is  rather  close  questioning,"  replied  the 
doctor,  almost  soberly.  "  But  what  is  the  <' Jfer- 
ence  between  us.  Bryony?  You  are  medicine, 
and  medicine  is  for  sick  folks,  is  it  not?"  • 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  it's  different.  Doctors  could  be 
somethin'  else,  you  know;  and  it's  jufit — just 
good  and  nice  and  grand  and  comfortable  of  'em 
to  give  'emselves  up  for  that.  It's  kind  of  like 
Jesus.  He  lived  and  died  to  make  folks  well  in- 
side. But  med'cine  is  nothing  but  med'cine ;  it 
wouldn't  be  good  for  anything  else."  ;■,..' 

Little  Bry  was  striking  bottom  principles ;  and, 
somehow,  as  was  her  wont,  she  struck  her  listen- 
er's heart.  He  spent  a  half  hour  with  her  —  the 
busy  man,  with  Scarce  a  minute  to  spare;  and 
coaxed  her  into  speaking  freely  on  the  subject  she 
always  avoided,  herself  and  her  pain.    He  left  ft 


-,ci^'i^'c-!!V^>f^i-^K^'i^\'^i^M^iK^'''^i^ 


WiWvii:^&%ii'jitt<»%w^^*t*sl^ 


uppil 


ime.    I  never 

very  kind  to 

fortabl"  V>  be 

ks  well,  don't 

,"  replied  the 
is  the  I'JPer- 
are  medicine, 
it  not?" 
ictoTs  could  be 
;'8  jufit — just 
'ortabie  of  'em 
s  kind  of  like 
folks  well  in- 
\,  med'cine ;  it 

e."  ••  ;{.,-..■.. 
■inciples;  and, 
Lck  her  listen- 
vith  her  —  the 
to  spare ;  and 
he  subject  she 
in.    He  left  a 


iM 


HAPPBNiSrV. 


RfPi 


81' 


"is;"-- ' 


glass  and  spoon  beside  hcr  when  he  went.  He 
thouT^ht  he  could  help  her. 

"You've  been  excelltnt  medicine  for  the  big 
doctor,"  he  said,  as  h<  icse  to  go,  tears  in  his  blue 
eyes.  "  He'll  come  again  when  he  needs  another 
dose." 

Winter  drags  along  slowly  to  the  poor.    Many, 

m 

on  Our  Street,  felt  hanger's  o-casional  bitings. 
Dick,  for  a  while,  was  very  steady ;  and  little  Bry 
did  not  want  life's  necessities.  Granny  Thorpe 
and  her  little  brood  were  pinched;  but  Widow 
Graf  ham,  with  her  sympathy  born  of  the  bitter 
past,  helped  smooth  it  for  all. 

Of  course  Widow  Graf  ham  felt  the  hard  times 
as  did  other  dealers,  but  they  never  froze  her 
heart-blood,  or  knotted  .her  purse-atrings.  She 
always  had  a  dollar  for  some  one  poorer  than  her- 
self, as  well  as  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  kind  word ;  as 
to  her  weekly  pudding,  it  was  an    established 

fact. 

Once  every  week  Widow  Grafham's  large 
bread  pudding,  yellow  with  custard,  speckled  with 


i^tismmfrtd^ieKHiiM*!^''' 


1P^Sf&S& 


fl  OVX  BTBXBT. 

raisins,  found  its  way  to  some  home.    Brj'  oftea 
got  a  little  one,  or  a  slice  off  the  big  one,  before  it 
was  sent  to  Granny  Thorpe's,  or  elsewhere.    It 
went  where  it  was  supposed  to  be  most  needed. 
It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon,  bright  and  sunny ; 
but  neither  the  white  snow  or  shining  sun  could 
satisfy  little  Beulah  Hobson,  for  she  wanted  an 
apple.    Granny  had  given  her  and  Hepzy  perm  is- 
sion  to  go  over  to  Bryony's  for  a  little  while  ;  but 
the  sight  of  little  Teddy  Sawyer  at  Widow  Graf- 
Jham's  shop  window,  with  an  apple  in  his  hand, 
had  taken  all  the  enjoyment  of  the  occasion  from 
Beulah ;  and  instead  of  going  into  Bry's  with  her 
sister,  she  went  to  Hudworth's  window,  devouring 
the  apples  and  oranges  there  displayed  as  truly 
and  as  greedily  as  one  can  without  getting  his 
teeth  into  them.  ..-;::-• 

"  O  dear ! "  she  said  at  last,  when  the  cold  com- 
pelled her  to  leave  the  charmed  spot  for  a  seat 
besidti  Bryony  and  her  sister.  "  O,  dear  1  I'm  so 
hungry  for  apples;  and  IVe  only  had  one  this 
winter,  and  they  smell  so  nice."      i 


Hl^ 


»ft.»^>>fA^«......  ...»..*5S~5if;'**»**»».»«**«»-i^----''*^^^^^  ^"^ 


tbjm 


ne.  Brj'  oftea 
J  one,  before  it 
elsewhere.  It- 
9  most  needed. 
,ht  and  sunny ; 
ling  sun  could 
she  wanted  an 

Hepzy  permis- 
ttle  while ;  but 
t  Widow  Graf- 
le  in  his  hand, 
I  occasion  £rom 

Bry's  with  her 
idow,  devouring 
iplayed  as  truly 
3Ut   getting  his 

sn  the  cold  corn- 
spot  for  a  seat 
0,  dear  1  I'm  so 
y  had  one  this 


happekik's. 


88 


"Where  did  you  smell  them?"  asked  Bry, com- 
passionately. 

"  At  Hudworth'B.  O,  such  big,  red  fellows  in 
the  windows,  big  a.s  my  two  fists." 

"  But  you  couldn't  eat'em  through  the  window," 
said  matter-of-fact  Hepzy. 

"  Yes,  I  did.    I  looked  and  looked  till  I  smelled 
'em,  and  then  I  looked  and  looked  till  I  tasted 
'em,  and  they  were  so  nice." 
,  «0,  what  a   Uel"    caid   Hepzy.      "I'U   tell 
granny." 

«  No,  'tain't  a  lie,"  said  Bry,  who  quite  x^nder- 
stood  the  feelingi  "She's  'magined  it,  i  uu  I's 
just  like  truly.  I  wish  I  had  an  apple  —  I'd  give 
it  to  her." 

,.  >  But  she  hadn't.  And  though  she  did  all  she 
could  to  make  her  little  company  forget,  it  was 
qmte  useless.  The  wax  dolly,  competent  to  any 
task  expected  of  her  heretofore  —was  not  able  to 
combat  these  longings.  Bry  racked  her  little 
braiu  in  vain  for  some  expedient,  then  suddenly 
her  face  brightened  beneath  u  new  thought.  ,...  , 


i«faiS»«SKi!«»-J*47»t% 


gtggByiwarotmagroiH!*'*"^ 


liffififairte 


84 


OUE  STEEET. 


"  Let's  play  party,"  she  said.  «  You  and  Hepzy 
go  out  and  pick  up  all  the  bits  of  apples  and  cores 
before  Hudworth's  door,  and  then  we'll  put  'em  in 
the  fire,  and  r-ake  believe  it's  truly  apples  baking, 
you  know."  -    ■      . 

Hepzy  could  not  see  the  good  of  this. 

"  She'll  only  feel  worse  'cause  she'll  want  to  eat 
'em  J "  ehp  said.  "  She  smellod  'em  at  Hudworth's, 
and  that  didn't  do  any  good." 

"'Cause  it  wasn't  a  truly  smell,"  said  Bry. 
"  A  truly  smell  goes  right  in,  you  see.  We  smell 
roses,  but  we  don't  want  to  eat  them." 

Beulah  was  convinced  by  this  reasoning,  Hepzy 
silenced. 

The  cores  were  soon  gathered.  Dirty,  frozen 
things  they  were,  but  patiently  the  children 
thawed  and  washed  them,  then  laid  them  on  the 
red-hot  coals.  Soon  the  sweet  smell  filled  the 
room.  • 

« It's  tune  to  go  to  the  party  now,  Angy,"  said 
Bry  to  Beulah's  old  rag  doll  (they  had  exchanged 
babies  for  the  ftfternoon).    "  I  smell  Mrs.  Beulah's 


tilMifeWf', 


.  -'tj. ^mm-m^fi^^  uUiimmimm0m^ii»M^rm*uMll^$IKS 


mik 


tt^ 


Mh 


HAPPENIN8. 


85 


ovi  and  Hepzy 
iples  and  cores 
e'U  put  'em  in 
apples  baking, 

of  this. 

'11  want  to  eat 

it  Hudworth'a, 

11,"  said  Bry. 
ee.    We  smell 
them." 
ksoning,  Hepzy 

Dirty,  frozen 

the    children 

i  them  on  the 

mell  filled  the 

w,  Angy,"  said 
had  exchanged 
1  Mrs.  Beulah's 


apples  a-baking.      SuJ)per    must  be   just   about 
ready.  ' 

.  Beulah  smiled.  She  was  imaginative  enough  to 
take  delight  in  this.  Even  Hepzy  found  some 
consolation.  "Folks  that  go  by'U  think  we're 
having 'em,"  she  said.  "  '■'-'  -"J  •.;'•• 
■  "Yes;  and  that'll  make  them  comfortable," 
added  Bry.  The  thought  that  anyone  could  be 
uncomfortable  because  some  one  else  enjoyed  what 
they  could  not  have,  had  never,  even  remotely, 
entered  her  conception.  —  '       • 

Quite  a  little  while  after  the  girls  went  home, 
Bry  sat  very  still,  her  face  sober.  She  was  think- 
ing, and  at  last  thought  out  loud,  as  usual. 

"  I  haven't  anything  that  I  could  buy  one  with, 
unless  I  gave  up  dolly.  I  —  could  —  do  —  that  I " 
slowly.  "  But  Dick  gave  it  to  me,  and  it  wouldn't 
be  right.  Then  it  might  make  her  feel  bad  to 
b'long  to  some  one  else,  'cause  she's  deaf  and 
dumb,  and  I  couldn't  make  h  r  understand.  But 
if  Beul  only  could  have  an  apple  1 "  Then,,  sud- 
denly :  "  O,  yes,  I  know.    My  med'cme  said  this 


■MHM>U»iWiMMliiif.'~*" 


"^m 


mi'-mm 


BiilllLMil»IW«»JjlMlilll'l'l'll*>ii««lll«l»«l"f»U"- 


1 

j 

; 


'••<? 


OITB  t'tKWRI, 


morning,  'Ask  anything  in  my  name.'  That's 
Jesus'  name.  Please,  dear  God,  just  send  a  few 
apples.  Please,  one  will  do.  For  Jeb,  '  sake. 
Amen."   ^ 


'.i,  :'>'.: 


■iria   L 


A  half  hour  after,  Dr.  Fosby's   black    Pete 

opened  Dry's  door,  after  a  little  rap.        .<  ?-    ' 

*'  For  de  little  Miss  Bry'ny,  wid  de  corap'menta 

of  de  doctor,"  he  said,  bowing  a  great  basket 

into  the  room,  and  leaving  it. 

The  little  girl  sat  with  both  eyes  stretched  very 
wide  open. 

"  I  know  it's  them  1  Ho  always  does  just  what 
He  says.     Jesus  is  ao  comfortable  I  " 

Then  she  slid  from  her  chair,  crept  to  the  bas- 
ket, and  peeped  in. 

Even  she  was  not  prepared  for  such  a  display. 
A  doze;t  jally  tarts,  blushing  with  beauty,  a  nice, 
white  loaf  of  bread,  a  chicken,  and  — a  full  peck 
of  apples. 

"  0 1  O I  it's  too  comfortable  1 "  said  little  Bry, 

and  she  cried. 

An  hour  after,  Ike,  entering,  found  a  strong 


■-».^>vaag)m»»&MmmviMiu^iam$S^ 


liM 


ime.'    That's 

t  send  a  few 

Jeb.   '  sake. 

black    Petti 

ap.      "•^■^-■^u  ' 

e  corap'ments 

great  basket 

jtretcbed  very 

ces  just  what 

1 " 

)t  to  the  baa- 

uch  a  display, 
beauty,  a  nice, 
I  —  a  full  peck 

aid  little  Bry, 

)und  a  strong 


BAPFSMINB. 


87 


flavor  of  baking  apples.  It  had  cost  Bry  a  lot  of 
aches,  but  sho  had  done  it,  and  the  oven  door 
was  opened  for  his  inspection.  ^  r  :»'*i'i^ 
"  Go  right  over  and  get  them  both !  I'm  going 
to  have  a  truly  party,"  she  said.  And  it  was 
"  truly." 


.■;■:•*    •.'■'■uy   i- 


',rT  .!«■ 


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V 


iti&#^4««ii«sa3M^^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 


MTTLE  8TEVIB. 


WINTER  does  not  last  forever.  The  sun, 
after  numberless  apparently  fruitless  at- 
tempts to  break  his  icy  chains,  at  last  succeeded, 
and  the  earth  walked  forth  from  captivity,  love- 
emancipated,  and  gave  utterance  to  her  joy  in 
opening  leaf  and  budding  flower,  in  singing  bird 
and  praiseful  man.  -         ,,. 

What  human  heart  responds  not  to  spring's 
glad  summons  to  awake  ?  nature's  prefiguring  of 
resurrection  life  and  joy.  Who  has  not  felt  like 
little  Bry  Perkins,  as  she  leaned  from  her  window 
one  April  morning,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
saying:  ..u-.-  _  :...-.       /we  g•:2;^^, 

88  t 


■^^m»^^m> 


,>Mii^mmimn\tAtiHiitiiimimiiti^»g^^ 


IVIfPIPII^ 


iver.  The  sun, 
;ly  fruitless  at- 
last  succeeded, 
captivity,  love- 
to  her  joy  in 
in  singing  bird 

aot  to  spring's 
prefiguring  of 
as  not  felt  like 
3m  her  window 
of  satisfaction, 


LITTLB  8TBVIB. 


89 


"  I  would  come  out,  pretty  sunshine !  I  would 
if  I  could.  I'm  lame,  but  I  thank  you  just  the 
same  for  asking  me." 

The  spring  had  brought  a  wonderful  treasuie  to 
our  Uttle  friend.  A  baby  1  A  really,  truly  baby, 
belonging  to  the  young  couple  who  Uved  upstairs, 
Edward  and  Mary  Parker. 

When  Dick  first  told  his  Uttle  sister  the  news 
she  cried  for  very  joy. 

"Just  to  think,  Dick,  that  God  should  send  a 
truly  baby,  like  the  little  Jesus,  right  into  our 
house,  Dick  I"  she  sobbed.  "O,  isn't  'Our 
Father'  comfortable  1 " 

The  baby  was  not  a  week  old  when,  yielding  to 
his  sister's  importunity,  Dick  carried  her  upstairs 
one  evening,  and  waited  while  Nurse  Adams 
brought  the  little,  red-faced  morsel  out  for  inspec^ 

tion.      -  .5 

'  Bry  took  one  long,  long  look,  touched  one  Uttle 
hand,  kissed  the  velvety  cheek,  and  then  was  con- 
tent for  two  more  weeks. 

Nurse  Adam^  had  gone  by  that  tune,  and  Bry 


^{ 


msmmum^MStm^'- 


IllilllllfuWniiHi 


rl'i-'-    'n  '- ' —  ^"-  -■■■'■■ 


wn^ 


90 


OITB  BTBEBT. 


did  not  tell  Dick  what  she  premeditated.  But 
after  he  was  gone  to  work,  and  Mr.  Parker  safely 
out  of  the  house,  then  she  clambered  slowly  and 
painfully,  on  her  hands  and  knees,  up  over  the 
stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

What  a  delightful  time  she  had  I  The  young 
mother  let  her  see  the  tiny  feet,  and  the  baby 
opened  his  eyes,  and,  yes — she  sat  in  the  great 
rocker  and  held  him  full  five  minutes. 

Then  it  was,  with  eyes  brimming  over  with  sat- 
isfaction that  she  said :  "  O,  Mrs.  Parker,  it's  bo 
comfortable  to  have  a  baby  I"  .    -  . 

Mrs.  Parker  laughed,  but  she  felt  very  much 
like  that  herself;  and  from  that  minute  a  strong 
affection  sprang  up  between  them,  based  on  that 
baby  boy.  ,  {t  i<<iJ- 

He  was  a  wonderful  child.  Bry  did  not  Wonder 
that  Letty  Sawyer  kissed  him  so  enthusiastically; 
that  Widow  Graf  ham  pronounced  him  a  splendid 
fellow ;  that  his  old  Grandpa  Dodge  came  away  in 
from  the  country,  and  looked  at  him  through  his 
spectacles,  and  held  him  in  his  shaky  arms,  and 


'^'^•^^»s«s»tfeSi»^iSi^»««8»«M^s^**^*®®^- 


^'""fM 


/^^TP^ 


wimw^ 


iitated.     But 

Parker  safely 

id  slowly  and 

up  over  the 

I    The  young 

and  the  baby 

.  in  the  great 

ites. 

over  with  sat- 

?arker,  it's  bo 

jlt  very  much 
inute  a  strong 
based  on  that 

id  not  wonder 
ithusiastically; 
liim  a  splendid 
came  away  in 
n  through  his 
iky  arms,  and 


LITTLE  STBVIB. 


91' 


laughed  and  cooed  at  him  as  if  he  was  a  huge  baby 
himself.  O,  no  1  none  of  these  things  surpri^d 
Bry ;  the  surprise  was  that  all  the  city,  at  least, 
all  Our  Street,  did  not  flock  to  see  him.  r . 

One,  two  years  passed,  and  the  baby  grew 
daily.  Dick  had  gone  back  to  his  ill  turns.  Bry 
wondered  and  prayed,  aul  wouhl  have  sorrowed, 
perhaps,  if  it  had  not  been  Tor  that  wonderful 
baby.  As  it  was  she  forgot  aU  things,  even  oooa- 
sional  hunger  pangs,  in  his  society. 

He  was  a  real  baby,  boisterous,  crowy,  kicky, 
not  a  bit  too  good  for  the  world,  yet  the  very  best 
thing  in  it.  Reckless  — as  what  baby  is  not?  — 
getting  his  small  legs  into  everything  possible, 
sticking  his  small  nose  into  everything  for- 
bidden. 

A  lusty,  laughing,  crying,  roly-poly.     A  curly- 

pated,  brown-eyed,  mischievous  tumble-about,  who 
picked  at  Bry's  eyes,  stuffed  his  fingers  into  her 
mouth,  pulled  her  hair  with  as  much  impunity  as 
if  these  things  had  been  made  solely  for  his  ben- 
efit, and  viewed  his  mother  much  in  the  light  of  » 


'I 


yjj^^iaiMiitMi"*!^  *»'""'''* ''''''''^ 


MiMMWiiiiii 


iiJUiW 


mi  OTTB  STREET. 

police  officer,  meddling  with  hia  personal  rights, 
when  she  interfered  in  the  least. 

It  so  happened  that  Bryony  gave  him  his 
name. 

"  What  will  you  call  him  ?  "  she  said  one  day 
to  Mary  Parker,  while  yet  the  child  was  young. 
"  Something  from  the  Bible  ?  I  think  Stephen 
would  be  nice,  'cause  his  little  face  shines  'most 
like  his  did  when  they  killed  him." 

"  O  dear ! "  said  the  mother,  quickly.  "  I  don't 
want  to  name  him  after  anyone  who  died." 

"  But  everybody  dies,"  replied  Bry.  "  O,  no  I 
Elijah  didn't.  Would  you  like  Elijah,  Mrs. 
Parker?" 

"Bless  me!  no;  that's  too  old."       -1    "  '^  ? 

"Or  Enoch?"  still  qucstioningly.  >  '    '  ;> >'  H 

"That's  worse  than  Elijah."  * 

"  But  they're  the  only  ones  that  didn't  die,  Mrs. 
Parker.     I  'spect  every  name  has  b'longed  to 

some  one  who  died."  -   .; -    -   ;, 

;  "  Perhaps  so,"  Mary  said,  and  it  ended  there. 
No,  it  didn't.    Hearing  of  the  conversation,  Mr. 


SSMiik'J^Misfe" 


iiiinir"-in""-°rr""'' 


.■•xv 


T^ 


v| 


personal  rights, 

gave    him   his 

le  said  one  day 
[Id  was  young, 
think  Stephen 
e  shines  'most 
tn." 

ikly.    "  I  don't, 
vrho  died." 
Bry.    "  O,  no  I 
Elijah,    Mrs. 


lidn't  die,  Mrs. 
[as  b'longed  to 

it  ended  there, 
nversation,  Mr., 


LrmjB  BTBVH!. 


M 


Parker  was  struck  very  favorably  with  Bryony's 
choice.  ■■*■'  •.  "^  ,rv  h«-v>,,.u,;  ^.?;:  n'j.vr 

"That's  my  brother's  name  —  Stephen,"  he 
said.  "  He's  worth  a  pile  of  money  and  has  no 
children.  Let's  call  him  that;  it  may  be  worth 
something  to  him  some  day."  -^^J-'P  >.::i..U  ol 
:  So  the  baby  was  named,  and  Bry  was  happy. 

It  was  she  who  first  discovered  him  trying  to 
catch  a  sunbeam,  and  who  prayed  over  his  first 
burn,  his  little  hand  held  fast  in  both  hers :  "  Please 
make  it  well,  dear  Jesus,  he'^  such  a  little  fello«r, 
and  it  hurts."      /•—  ''■'--  --.--'<^>''  ^'^-^"*  • 

She  taught  him  first  to  pucker  up  his  ruby  lips 
for  a  kbs,  and  to  waft  them  through  the  air  from 
his  tiny  palm.  Who  was  prouder  than  she  when 
he  patted  the  first  cake  for  his  admiring  mamma, 
and  what  adventurer  ever  boasted  more  of  his 
wondrous  discoveries  than  she  at  the  finding  of 
that  first  tooth  ?  and  his  first  step— ah,  little  Bry  I 
who  else  thought  of  praying  that  night:  "Dear 
Jesus,  you  are  so  good  to  teach  him  how  to  walk ; 
please  don't  let  him  ever  forget  to  grow,"     '^d 


\\ 


aMiiiiTmirtt'liflWifililSiaiir' ' 


^\-s^fti»iiitim»vmiii>'*ii-^**i'*ft  '*•">* 


M 


OTTB  WI^MET. 


But  Bry's  baby  was  growing  old ;  his  third  year 
was  opening.  Long  since  he  had  learned  to  travel 
over  the  perilous  stairs  to  reach  her,  now  his 
favorite  place  was  by  her  side.  He  would  push  a 
chair  up  close  to  her,  and  climb  on  her  lap,  the 
little  lap  that  sometimes  ached  so  sorely,  yet  so 
gladly,  from  the  precious  burden  it  would  not 
have  missed  for  the  world. 

Mrs.  Parker  knew  how  well  Bry  could  be 
trusted  with  her  darUng,  and  days  when  she  was 
unusually  busy,  or  wished  to  go  out,  Stevie  was 
left  to  her  charge.  Then  what  strange,  old- 
fashioned  talks  they  had  together,  for  Stevie 
learned  early  to  use  his  tongue.  But  none  of  his 
sayings  pleased  Bry  like  this:  "When  I  det  up  to 
papa,  I'll  be  oor  granfarder.  By." 

O,  how  Bryony  would  laugh !  yet  Master  Stevie 
was  wholly  in  earnest.  "Granfarder"  was  the 
repositum  of  untold  sweetriieats  and  toys,  and  to 
be  Bry's  "  granfarder "  meant  to  him  to  be  her 
greatest  good.;  ; 
Occasionally,  of  an  evening,  Mr.    and   Mrs. 


*-v' 


ili 


(pPmnaniaiun 


■^)l"ff*WP^W^'^ 


1. 1  .(ii 


;  his  third  year 
arned  to  travel 

her,  now  his 
}  woiild  push  a 
)n  her  lap,  the 
I  sorely,  yet  so 

it  would  not 

Bry  could  be 
when  she  was 
»ut,  Stevie  was 
t  strange,  old- 
ler,  for  Stevie 
3ut  none  of  his 
hen  I  det  up  to 

it  Master  Stevie 
jder"  was  the 
ind  toys,  and  to 
>  him  to  be  her 

Mr.    and   Mrs. 


LITTIiB  BTIBVIB.  ■• 

Parker  went  out  together.    Then  the  little  man 
shared  Bryony's  room,  and  then  i.;  was  that  he 
took  lessons  of  her  in  astronomy.     <i»t  ods  h">,vi 
'  "  The  stars  are  the  eyes  of  people  who  live  in 
heaven,"  she  said,  on  one  such  occasion.    "  Those 
two  over  there  are  my  mother's  eyes,  and  they 
always  look  just  so  comfortable.    She's  been  there 
a  long  time  now,  and  knows  lots  of  things."  , ,? 
"  We'll  be  next  her  when  we  doe,  an'  we'll  be 
comfittle.  By,"  lisped  Stevie.       :■/ ,j  <  r  <vi,fRTffi 
"0,  you  mustn't  go,  Stevie.    You're  going  to 
be  a  nice,  big  man,  and  tell  folks  about  Jesus. 
I'll  go  first."       --^^  i*...'i'    ■•*>-?•    ^-iU;    H  :,^-.-„.i,.,;; 
One  night  she  had  a  new  scientific  discovery  to 
relate.  '  ■"'  -  ■•■•■^^'■^"^^^-^  -—'■--':'•' -^ 

"  I've  found  out  what  the  moon's  made  out  of, 
Stevie,"  she  said.  You  know  that  nice,  reddish 
sort  of  clay  you  and  me  saw  going  along  in  the 
big  carts  the  other  day  ?  Well,  God  made  the 
moon  out  of  that.  He  made  it  round  likp  a  snow- 
ball first "  —  using  her  hands  to  illustrate  —  "  then 
he  made  it  flat "  —  bringing  her  hands  together  — 


1 
'1 


MllftMiyi-il'iMii'ife'iBiii''" 


jlgtMWIM'!''*'**'''"''**''^'"'''^''''*'''"''*'^  "^  '■* 


,  1  ^^^^    *■ 


-  'A 


^mmsm^mm^^ 


wmmmim'm'mB 


96 


Gun  8TBBBT. 


"  like  a  pancake,  and  stuck  it  up  in  the  sky  with 
his  thumb."*  '  '        •       •      > 

"  Bid  Dod  I  "  said  the  astonished  listener. 

"  Yes,  bigger  than  you  can  think  if  you  shut 
your  eyes  ever  so  tight,  and  try  real  hard,"  replied 
Bry.  "  But  then  he  lives  up  there  just  inside  the 
blue,  and  it's  easy  for  Him  to  put  out  one  arm  and 
fasten  it."  '  '  "      -•      -  ■' 

"Did  he  nail  it  there?"  now  queried  the 
scholar.  '  •    .  *" 

"  O,  no  I  that  would  spoU  it.  The  nails  would 
show." 

*»  It  look  as  if  suffin  was  fastened  to  the  middle," 
said  the  little  boy. 

"  O  1  that's  only  a  picture  God  made  with  his 
finger.  You  see,  Stevie,  that  isn't  anything  to 
what  he's  got  inside.  The  moon  and  stars  and 
sun  are  nothing  but  hb  little  lights." 

One  morning  Stevie  did  not  come  down  to  see 


•  Thitittrue.  The  ides  of  a  little  lister  oi  the  author's.  Truly  a  Daxen-haired 
Bry,  who  now  with  angeU  learehes  out  the  truths  of  creation,  and  creatioB** 
Creator.  -,  -  ■   . 


i 


. ,.  ^i..-^Cjdi^.^i.:i:i:.S-':-  r-  ^:', .:  r-^-  ■  ■*•-    ••<"  ■■-  ■ "V  J#.  -  ,"  .■ 


the  sky  with 

listener. 
c  if  you  shut 
lard,"  replied 
ist  inside  the 
;  one  arm  and 


.     .I  ;-    •<•■/•; 


queried  the 

)  nails  would 

>  the  middle," 

lade  with  his 
;  anything  to 

nd  stars  and 

_ »»  ... 


down  to  see 


Tnily  a  flaxen-haired 
eation,  and  creation'* 


.......J*. 


LITTLB  fVtVrOu 


97 


Bry  —  something  unusual ;  and  his  little,  f^etM 
cries  reached  her  strained  ears.  .ii.> »-  ""*• 

"  P'r'aps  he's  sick,"  she  said.  And,  by-and-by, 
nnable  to  still  her  surmisings  longer,  she  laid  her 
crutches  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  crept  slowly 

i  Mrs.  Parker  was  surprised,  on  opening  the  door 
in  answer  to  a  feeble  rap,  to  find  Bry's  little  face 
looking  up  from  the  floor.  She  helped  her  in 
quickly,  and  went  down  after  her  crutches.        *> 

♦♦  I'm  glad  you've  come  I  "  »he  said,  in  a  relieved 
sort  of  way.  "  Stevie  is  so  cross.  He  was  fretful 
enough  yesterday,  but  to-day  there's  no  living 
with  him.  I  think  "  —  lowering  her  voice  —  ♦♦  he's 
coming  down  with  the  chicken-pox."     '^^  ''p'" 

So  Bryony  was  soon  established  in  the  big 
rocker,  baby  Steve  beside  her.  It  was  won  lerful 
how  soon  she  quieted  him  with  her  funny  talk. 
It  was  all  about  chickens  that  don't  live  in  a  hen- 
house, and  have  no  mamma,  and  can't  say  "  peep  1 
peep ! "  and  don't  eat  meal  or  com,  and  haven't 
any  feathers  ox  eyes,  only  little  red  oombs }  yet 


i  •' 


%k^ 


mm^mmemmmmm 


mtmmamBmmmmmmmmmm 


mmamm-'mmmmmmmim 


r 


91  OUB  STBIOBT. 

make  babies  cry,  and  run  all  over  their  faces,  and 
make  their  eyes  ache,  and  are  very  naughty  little 
things.     -    .    .      •■'  .ri-'    ■'  ;»    i'  vr.         i/    ,'•.■    :*' 

Mrs.  Parker  declared  to  her  husband  that  night 
that  she  had  never  seen  such  a  child  as  Bryony ; 
and  every  day  thereafter,  until  baby  was  quite 
well,  Mr.  Parker  brought  Bry  up-etairs  before 
he  went  to  work,  and  Dick  carried  her  down  at 
night ;  and  she  quite  learned  to  say,  "  Our  baby ; " 
"Our  Stevie."  >     ?  '■'    ' 

No  knowing  how  grimy  "  our  baby  "  would  have 
become  had  it  not  been  for  our  little  friend.  His 
little  feet  and  fists  and  yells  fell  so  fast  when  his 
mother  began  to  wash  him  that  she  was  glad  to 
desist ;  but  Bryony's  attempts  in  the  same  direc- 
tion furnished  great  fun.  '  -    •    ^     * 

The  sponge  was  a  little  brown  colt  that  didn't 
know  his  own  stable,  and  blundered  first  into 
one  brown  eye  and  then  the  other,  and  then 
across  his  cheeks  and  chin,  bringing  up  at  the 
ears.  -^ ••■    /  •       ":■.* 

How .  excited    the    little    fellow   grew   over 


i  i 


\:"- 


^mmm^mmammm 


their  faces,  and 
y  naughty  little 

band  tbat  night 
ild  as  Bryony; 
)aby  was  quite 
pHstaira  before 
ad  her  down  at 
,  "  Our  baby ; " 
.,..,,.!  -'.^^  ;■■ 
)y  "  would  have 
;le  friend.  His 
)  fast  when  his 
he  was  glad  to 

the  same  direo- 

....  ..^     ♦  ■■,./,    .^ 

iolt  that  didn't 
lered  first  into 
bher,  and  then 
ging  up  at  the 


ow   grew   over 


LrrTLB  8TBVI1B.  W 

the   business,  with    what    »    shout    he    greeted 
the  colt  finally  housed  in  the  tin  basin!    ^.  • 

It  wae  very  much  the  same  in  combing  his 
hair,  only  then  each  separate  curl  was  a  little 
pig,  with  a  funny  name,  who,  in  some  unaccount- 
able way,  got  his  bristles  il  twisted  up.  How 
anxious  "  our  baby  "  grew  to  have  them  straight- 
ened, with  what  a  crow  of  triumph  he  recognized 
his  own  curly  head  in  the  glass  to  which  mother 
lifted  him.  Jt.ai 

'  Our  little  Bry  proved  herself  a  general,  but 
her  pleasant  days  with  Stevie  were  interrupted 
somewhat.  Edward  Parkei  was  doing  well  in 
his  business,  and  felt  that  he  could  well  afford  a 
larger  home.  His  wife  wanted  a  parlor,  but  she 
hated  to  part  with  Bryony.       '  ;  -     ■- 

After  a  while  a  tenement  just  suiting  them 
was  vacated  across  the  street,  and  they  moved. 
It  was  a  sore  trial  to  Bry.  To  be  sure  it  was 
not  far,  but  it  was  where  his  little  cry  would 
not  reach  her  ears,  where  his  baby  feet  could 
not  travel  so  often,  though  Mrs.  Parker  promised 


|f^ 


tMi't' 


'wn 


n 


100 


OUB  STBBET. 


BtUl  to  bring  him  over,  and  to  leave  him  when  she 

wished  to  go  away. 

Bry  tried  to  be  brave.     She  said: 

"I'm  glad,  of   course  I'm  glad.     He'll  have 

everything  nice,  now ; "  still,  she  did  shed  a  few 

tears  that  night,  after  she  was  in  bed,  where 

nobody  would  see  them. 


fci- 


ii^'-^- 


V,      .{•   :  *>''• 


1  -  -,"•■ 


.,oj!  x.c:f' 


■  ii'yh-;-:j^(f<iif^:  .^ '*.;■;.:. 


'"'rT^CS^'^^i   'WS'O' 


m 


e  him  when  she 

}aid: 

A.     He'U  have 

did  shed  a  few 

in  bed,  where 


'.1,'"  '-f ' 


^^'c y  :>•«■■  I; '.-^    Sii       ■'     .  ■'    ■' ■      ■       "'jAff  JTal''    iiSiSi:^ 
CHAPTER  yn..  1,-,.,.  n^Acf-^*^' 

A  TEAMP. 

FALL  weather  had  come  again,  and  hard  times 
with  it.    All  classes  of  workmen  trembled, 
and  those  without  trades  might,  well  fear. 

Granny  Thorpe  was  very  feeble,  increasingly 
so;  and  Ike  nnsuccessful  in  finding  anything 
to  do.  Widow  Graf  ham  jhad  got  a  situation  for 
Hephzibah  at  the  West  End,  as  under  nurse,  and 
there  were  but  three  to  feed  now.  But  deui  old 
granny's  needle  could  not  do  that,  and  Ike's 
usually  cheerful  face  was  lengthening  percep- 
tibly. 

"  You  see  it  won't  do.  Bryony,"  he  said  to  his 
little  consolation  one  evening.     "  It  won't  do. 

101 


.4 


r 


102 


0T7B  8TBEXT. 


Winter  is  coming  on,  granny's  tjo  old  to  work, 
and  I  ought  to  be  supporting  her;  but  I  don't 
support  myself.  I  can't  eat ;  the  food  chokes  me 
when  I  know  there's  so  little,  and  that  costs  her 
so  much.  When  anybody  brings  her  in  some- 
thing nice,  and  she  puts  it  on  the  table,  I  feel  like 
a  thief.  You  would,  you  know  you  would,  if  you 
were  a  great  boy  like  mel"  , 
'■..  His  voice  was  very  shaky,  for  his  heart  was  very 
full ;  and  Bry's  little,  tender,  soothing  touches  did 
not  tend  to  strengthen  it.  ^ 

"I've  tried  all  over  the  city.  Some  say  I 
am  big  enough  to  be  liearning  a  trade  instead  of 
running  errands.  But  wherever  I  go  to  try  for  a 
chance  to  learn  a  trade,  it's  always  the  same 
answer:  'Too  hard  times  to  take  apprentices; 
they  don't  pay.'  So  what  is  a  fellow  to  do  ?  I'm 
'most  sixteen,  Bry  —  think  of  it  I  My  clothes  are 
getting  small  —  they  are  already  shabby  enough  — 
111  be  naked  altogether  soon."  r  :;: ,  j  .  .,  j 
r  "  *  If  God  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  which 
to<lay  is,  and  to-morrow  is  cast  into  the  oven, 


.-iintiVaJh^lFMiii-'- 


?▲  TSAMP. 


108 


lO  old  to  work, 
3r;  but  I  don't 
'ood  chokes  me 
.  that  costs  her 
^  her  in  some- 
bable,  I  feel  like 
u  would,  if  you 

J  heart  was  very 
ling  touches  did 

Some  say  I 
trade  instead  of 
[  go  to  try  for  a 
ways  the  same 
ke  apprentices; 
ow  to  do  ?  I'm 
My  clothes  are 
babby  enough  — 

the  field,  which 
I  into  the  oven, 


shall  he  not  much  more  clothe  you,  O  ye  of  little 
faith?'"  quoted  Bry.  "That  was  my  med'cine 
this  morning.  He  always  says  true,  and  its  com- 
fortable." 

"Yes,"  assented  Ike,  hesitatingly ;  "but  I'm  a, 
big  boy,  big  enough  to  earn  it.  "  I  wouldn't  like 
to  sponge  on  Grod  if  I  could  help  it." 

"  But  it  isn't  sponging,  Ikey  boy.  You're  his 
own  boy,  and  He  has  a  right  to  feed  and  clothe 
you.  And  you've  done  all  you  can,  and  He  knows 
it.  O,  He's  got  something  for  you,  something 
comfortable,  I  know.      It's  slow,  but  it's  com- 

ing.     -     ,.     .  .; 

"  But  I  want  it  now,"  said  the  boy.  "  Poor  old 
granny  !  it  almost  breaks  my  heart.  I  could  bear 
it  — I'm  big  and  strong  — that  is,  I'm  big  inside. 
I  feel  big  enough  to  do  anything  I  But  that's  one 
reason  they  give  for  not  hiring  me  on  the  wharves. 
♦You're  not  large  and  stout  enough.'  I  wish 
they'd  let  me  try  once.  But,  Bry,  I've  been  think- 
ing I'm  a  good  mind  to  go  outside  of  the  city,  to 
the  farmers.      It's  a  poor  time  of  the  year,  I 


&AlK4^ijSl^M9iuu4M*- - 


i04 


OTTS  S7BKIT. 


know;  but  if  I  can  ©arn  my  bo«rd  it'll  b«  better 
for  the  others."  .      -    .    >      .. 

Little  Dry's  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and 
stopped.  Ike  go  away  I  Wh»t  of  the  lonely 
nights  when  Dick  was  gone  ?  the  many  kindnesses 
of  every  day  ?  But  she  shut  her  mouth  resolutely. 
She  must  not  stand  in  his  way.  The  first  thing 
nhe  said  after  a  little  pause — said  with  her  cheek 
laid  up  to  his,  her  arms  about  his  neck,  was: 

"  P'r'aps  that's  just  the  thing.  It's  nice  to  be 
big  and  able  to  try,  and  then  you  know  there  is 
Somebody  bigger  than  all  who  will  help  you.  I'll 
ask  Him  to  be  sure  and  send  something  and  He 
will.  He  always  says  *  Yes.'  It's  so  comfortable 
to  have  a  Jesus  I " 

"  It's  so  comfortable  to  have  you  I "  burst  out 
Ike.  "  I  don't  believe  I  could  live  without  you. 
You  are  my  medicine,  sure." 

It  was  settled  that  night  before  they  separated 
that  he  should  start  next  morning.  There  was  a 
long  talk  with  granny  before  bedtime,  and  day- 
light found  him  upon  his  way.    ,       ,  ,  .„. 


^ 


I  it'll  b«  better 

/ 

iat  bound,  and 
t  of  the  lonely 
nany  kindnesses 
louth  resolutely. 
The  first  thing 
with  her  cheek 
his  neck,  was: 
It's  nice  to  be 
u  know  there  is 

II  help  you.  I'll 
nething  and  He 
B  so  comfortable 

rou  I  "  burst  out 
ve  without  you. 

s  they  separated 
ig.  There  was  a 
dtime,  and  day- 


lA  TSAMV. 


106 


'  He  went  out  pa«^  the  Oaks,  and  walked  all 
day,  but  without  results.  He  turned  back,  but 
not  home.  He  would  not  impoverish  bis  grand- 
mother ;  he  would  walk  until  he  did  find  employ- 
ment, he  inwardly  resolved.  So  he  crossed  the 
bridge  and  entered  Our  Village.  The  night  found 
him  cold,  hungry,  shelterless.  He  turned  into  a 
field,  and,  coming  upon  a  barn,  crept  into  it,  and 
covered  himself  with  the  hay.  There,  on  bis  bed 
of  straw,  he  wondered  if  God  had  utterly  for- 
saken him,  and,  still  wondering,  fell  asleep  from 
very  weariness. 


'4  a.r>J  nr 


TJlt 


>^/-.:7f-3 


"  June  Hargreave,  he's  hiuigry  I  'most  starving. 
Will  you  give  him  some  breakfast?  Sayl  will 
you?"  '  ^       • 

"Give  who  some  breakfast.  Miss  Primrose? 
Me  is  hungry;  what  he?"  and  Juniper  laughed 
a  gay  little  laugh,  as  she  gazed  in  her  sister's 
excited  face. 

«♦  Why,  he,  of  course.  How  do  I  know  his 
name  ?    I  didn't  stop  to  inquire  name  when  he's 


mm 


106 


0T7B  STBEET. 


n 


'most  starving,  p'r'aps.  Say,  can  he  come  up? 
He's  down  at  the  gate,  and  —  O  dear,  say,  June, 
say?" 

"  Of  course  he  can  come.  There  is  small  need 
of  anybody  starving,  and  all  these  buckwheat 
fritters  going  to  waste.    Bring  him  along." 

'*  Stop,  Rose."  It  was  a  commanding  voice  that 
deterred  the  child  on  her  dance  to  the  door.  "  It's 
only  a  tramp,  June,"  continued  the  gentleman,  in 
a  less  exacting  tone,  resuming  his  paper. 

"  And  tramps  never  get  hungry,  though  gentle^ 
men  with  banknstock  and  real  estate  are  foolish 
enough  to  occasionally.  Is  that  it,  Popsydil?" 
The  saucy  little  speaker  eyed  the  tall,  dark  gentle- 
man very  coolly  as  she  asked  this  question,  and 
with  the  least  bit  of  attend-to-your-own-a£Eiairs-sir 
in  her  voice...^^  ..^,„  ,;„.,  ..^.,  :„.;v^-  ^^.„  ,,,,  _^,j,^.^ ., 

"  Why,  yes.  I  pappose  the  miserable  dogs  do 
get  hungry,  like  their  betters ;  but  why  don't  they 
work  for  their  bread?     That's  the  question."   .^ 

"  No,  Popsydil,  you  are  mistaken.  That  is  not 
the  question,"  replied  Miss  June,  a  little  twinkle 


~3iv:isn«s.7iS-r?S?!3Sftr-r*r 


ilh*^pi«iMJiWa>i*^wlMI^*l'*«>|'fc«*i'^>*«*'«*^'''*i''^'^"'^i'<  *  I "  T*'illifc'  l''^'l'<ta^< 


▲  TBAMP. 


107 


an  he  come  up? 
dear,  say,  June, 

• 

re  is  small  need 
hese  buckwheat 
liim  along." 
mding  voice  that 
the  door.    «« It's 
be  gentleman,  in 
lis  paper. 
y,  though  gentle^ 
estate  are  foolish 
t  it,Pop8ydil?';^ 
tall,  dark  gentlo- 
liis  question,  and 
inr-own-a£Eiair&-sir 

iserable  dogs  do 
t  why  don't  they 
the  question."   .^^ 
en.    That  is  not 
,  a  little  twinkle 


in  her  bright  eyes.  "  The  question  is  whether  this 
particular  tramp  —  as  you  call  him — shall  go 
hungry,  or  eat  up  these  nice  fritters  that  nobody 
else  will  eat."  June  ^as  just  a  little  aggrieved 
that  her  breakfast  had  not  found  better  appe- 
tites. 

"June,"  decidedly,  "I  cannot  feed  all  the 
tramps  iu  the  country." 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't  suppose  you  can,"  demurely. 
♦♦  If  you  could  I  couldn't,  this  morning.  But  I 
can  and  will  feed  this  one.  These  fritters  shall 
find  a  consumer.  Hurry  up,  Primrose,  or  they 
will  be  cold  before  he  gets  them." 

Rose  cast  a  little  fearful  glance  at  her  father, 
but  the  gentleman  was  apparently  busy  with  his 
paper,  so  she  darted  off. 

"  June,  do  you  think  you  set  just  the  right  exam- 
ple before  your  sister,  in  teaching  her  to  disobey 
me?  I  thought  that  Book  you  have  so  recently 
adopted  as  your  guide  said  something  about  chil- 
dren obeying  their  parents."  a 

Mr.  Hargreave's  voice  denoted  no  anger,  it  sel- 


% 


liiilht<«lu«fclili»i»Lawm  iMIiMli^ 


ni 


ftmm 


•V, 


108 


OTTB  STBSBT* 


dom  did  in  ^ddressiag  Juniper ;  it  did  express  ft 
little  amused  questioning'  as  to  how  she  would  get 
out  of  the  dilemma  she  had  suggested. 

**  Of  course  it  does."  Miss  June  seated  herself 
on  «ne  of  the  gentleman's  knees  as  she  answered. 
**  And  it  says  something,  too,  about  fathers  provok- 
ing their  children  to  anger,  and  you're  a  dreadful 
provokative,  sometimes,  Popsydil.  I  am  really 
afraid"  —  and  Miss  June,  who  had  been  vibrating 
back  and  forth,  suddenly  gained  an  equilibrium. 
*'  I  am  really  afraid,  Popsydil,  that  you  have  the 
root  of  all  evil  in  you.  Money's  a  very  good 
thing  if  we  don't  1  uve  it  too  well,  but "  —  and  the 
little  lady's  voice  grew  very  grave  —  "  but  I  really 
don't  know  what  might  happen  to  this  house  if  J 
wasn't  here  to  give  away  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a 
few  pies  occasionally."  ..i     ^  uy  ,;«  , ;,  v  j  .  ;    a 

The  gentleman's  eyes  were  full  of  repressed 
merriment  as  he  lifted  them  to  his  daughter's 

*'  Then  I  am  to  understand.  Puss,  that  you  are  » 
sort  of  lightning-rod  patching  the  electric  sparks 


»«iiltiniiMili'««fi«ith«)>*fi?i>aifitiiiiin»t«i'.iW!«ii?ifSiitii*teii'iM 


it  did  express  a 
DW  she  woiild  get 
l^ested. 

ne  seated  herself 
as  she  answered. 
lit  fathers  provok- 
you're  a  dreadful 
I.  I  am  really 
kL  been  vibrating 
I  an  equilibrium, 
tat  you  have  the 
sy's  a  very  good 
,  but "  —  and  the 
e  —  "  but  I  really 
to  this  house  if  J 
if  of  bread  and  a 


A  TRAta.n.'vo 


t09 


;i;«.    !| 


full  of  repressed 
to  his  daughter's 

ss,  that  you  are  a 
le  electric  sparks 


of  divine  wrath,  and  conducting  them  away  from 
my  devoted  head?" 

"  You  must  not  trifle  with  divine  wrath ;  it  is 
a  reality."  Such  a  sober,  sober  face,  such  bright, 
earnest  eyes.  Miss  June  was  so  quiet  now  one 
could  hardly  have  supposed  her  to  be  the  same 
little  bird  that  was  bobbing  its  brilliant  head  from 
side  to  side  of  the  father-face  so  recently. 

T^e  fond  parent  patted  the  bright  head,  and 
drew  the  bright  face  to  his  for  a  kiss. 

"She  loves  to  preach  at  her  old  father,"  he 
said.        --    -    .'■:'::-.■..      ...-:^..:    '..-::     .^,.,    .■    -„... 

"No,  it  ain*t  preaching,  it's  only  doing  my 
duty."  Two  arms  went  like  a  flash  about  his 
neck,  two  lips  sought  his  again,  two  eyes  smiled 
roguishly  from  out  the  dimpled  face.  "He's 
nothing  but  a  naughty  old  bear,  but  I  love  him  I " 
said  the  saucy  child,  balancing  herself  again  on  his 

knee.  ^^i?-^,*-:- i.;j?i.      ■^V'.i.-'s^lf'*/       ^<=..-,\rj-     t?.;;        >r\^       «/■;    7ihf  iv  ii'^'J^ 

Perhaps  Mr.  Hargreave  was  not  very  much  to 
blame  for  his  pride  in  his  eldest  bom.  Few  faces 
were  more  piquantly  lovely,  none  could  mak? 


^WhE^I' 


[  niViifwiiif'iWtiiiiliwli 


vim^MsmMmsmmmmM^M^M 


no 


OUB  8TBEET. 


greater  contrast  to  the  almost  stern  darkness  of 
his  own. 

She  had  such  a  delicious  complexion  1  The  lily 
and  the  pink  were  wonderfully  blended  and  con- 
trasted, and  who  could  count  the  dimples  ?  One 
never  knew  where  the  next  one  would  surprise 
him  1  They  were  like  her  smiles,  multitudinous, 
and  like  them,  also  bewildering. 

The  cheeks  were  rounded  perfectly,  the  chin 
roguishly,  the  dainty,  tinted  ears  and  snowy  neck 
were  all  her  own.  Such  a  comical  little  I-do-os-I- 
please  nose,  such  a  coaxing,  wishful,  authoritative 
mouth,  wooing  you  by  its  beauty  to  kiss  it,  fright- 
ening you  from  your  purpose  by  its  do-it-if-you- 
dare-itiveness  I 

The  head  was  just  a  wee  bit  commanding  in  its 
air,  inimitable  in  its  poise.  Seldom  still,  always 
claiming  your  attention,  consuming  your  attention. 
A  head  covered  with  —  what  colored  haur,  shall  I 
gay?  Not  black,  like  her  father's,  not  brown, 
like  Aunt  Myra's,  not  drab,  like  Mrs.  Maria's,  or 
goldy,  like  Rose's,  not  red,  like  Betty's,  the  house- 


^/Jaft^w^:w^rf1W^t^a;■^:^«ga^8l■i^i»Wll^*l«^^  nml^*  iViftti  MirtWiJB 


■a^''Ka.. 


A  TRAMP. 


in 


tern  darkness  of 

iexion  I  The  lily 
blended  and  con- 
3  dimples?  One 
e  would  surprise 
3S,  multitudinous, 

irfectly,  the  chin 
i  and  snowy  neck 
al  little  I-do-os-I- 
iifiil,  authoritative 
f  to  kias  it,  fright- 
)y  its  do-it-if-you- 

ommanding  in  its 
idom  still,  always 
ing  your  attention, 
tlored  hair,  shall  I 
ther's,  not  brown, 
9  Mrs.  Maria's,  or 
Betty's,  the  house- 


maid. jL/iesB  me,  no  I  not  red,  and  yet  somewhere 
between  red  and  brown.  A  delicious  color,  almost 
like  wine  "  when  it  giveth  his  color  in  the  cup, 
when  it  moveth  itself  aright."  "Look  not,"  said 
Solomon,  of  that  cup.  Well  had  it  been  for  some 
ladies  could  they  have  helped  looking  at  Juniper 
Hargreave's  hair,  for  their  brown  locks  never 
pleased  them  as  well  after,  and  it  was  generally 
weeks  before  they  could  view  them  with  any 
degree  of  complacency.  It  did  not  curl,  or  yet 
lay  still.  It  danced  about  as  fancy-free  as  her 
own  heart,  as  uncontrolled  as  robin  red-breast. 
Sometimes  it  could  be  coaxed  to  braid  or  band  for 
an  occasion,  but  it  always  broke  forth  in  greater 
freedom  after,  as  if  glad  of  release. 

Her  eyes  were  like  her  hair  in  color,  and  par- 
takers of  its  peculiar  beauty.  She  was  young  — 
just  fifteen ;  small,  though  you  did  not  realize  i^ 
untrained,  un  osciplined.  Her  mother  had  died  in 
her  infancy,  and  she  had  broujght  up  herself,  if 
you  believe  her  own  testimony,  a  fact  on  which 
she  rather  prided  herself.  ., 


.*% 


■%r 


Ji 
% 


""*'•*  ».!»«,S-'i,       -,■,  _j',J,  I 


TJlf^ 


■'■'■■liWIiUHH 


wmmmm 


MfMM 


iiP 


112 


OUB  iTBEKT. 


To  b«  sure,  Aunt  Myra  llargreave  had  under- 
taken  that  difficult  task,  but  she  had   not  suo- 
oeeded  well.      Not,  however,  from  want  of  dili- 
gonce.    She  worked  with  indefatigable  determina- 
tion   and    zeal,  gtretching,    pruning,   preaching 
dUciplining.    But  Juniper  would  not  — and  her 
father  rather  exulted  in  tlw  fact  —  persistently 
would  not  become    a    sooond   edition    of   Aunt 
Myra.    If  she  had  she  would  not  certainly  have 
been  anything  like  her  mother,  for  Edward  Har- 
greave  would  not  have  been  guilty,  even  in  Huch  a 
secondary  manner,  of  marrying  his  maiden  sister. 
Facts  compel  me  to  admit  that  Miss  Juniper 
triumphed,  and  Miss  Hargreave  was  driven  from 
the  field  in  high  dudgeon.    Her  anger  had  been 
somewhat  modifiod  lately,  however,  by  certain 
concessions  made  by  June,  which  were  wholly  the 
ftsult  of  the  new  Christian  experience  to  wluch 
her  father  referred. 

After  her  aunt's  departure  Juniper  had  been 
sole  mistress  of  the  situation.  To  be  sure,  her 
father  married  again,  but  the  step-mother  had 


■i  ab«:»«aMH»Wi%«<>il«k  I 


.  l"^iiA^IMit.i'*^^^  ^^-^a^^'^IjfcAto  ^K6mpU^BitlmBmAMi 


~W" 


mmmmmmmam. 


mmmmmmsm^^ 


wmfmrnm' 


A  TBABIP. 


118 


rgreave  had  under- 
,  Bhe  had  not  suo- 
from  want  of  dill- 
fatigablo  determina- 
(runing,  preaohinj^ 
ould  not  —  and  her 

fact  — pewUtently 
I   edition    of    Aunt 

not  certainly  have 
jr,  for  Edward  Har- 
uilty,  even  in  Huch  a 
ig  his  maiden  sister. 
;  that  Miaa  Juniper 
,ve  wa»  driven  from 
Her  anger  had  been 
lowever,  by  certain 
dich  were  wholly  the 
experience  to  wWch 

■e  Juniper  had  been 
n.  To  be  sure,  her 
the  gtep-iuoth«r  had. 


little  power  ;  and  ere  long  nhe  was  laid  betide  the 
first  wife,  leaving  Rose.      -^  '     - 

Juniper  brought  up  Hose.  She  was  competent, 
she  Raid  — she  had  learned  from  Aunt  Myra  ;  and 
it  was  amusing  to  see  how  she  applied  the  rules  to 
another  that  she  had  found  so  irksome  herself. 
The  result  was.  Miss  Rose  was  somewhat  old- 
maidish,  and  earned,  early  in  life,  the  prefix  of 
"Prim"  to  her  original  name. 

Now  there  was  a  third  wife  in  the  house.  Poor 
June  was  in  despair  when  her  father  first  imparted 
to  her  the  news.  That  was  before  her  con  version, 
and  she  was  not  angelic.  She  persistently  refused 
to  call  the  new-comer  anything  but  Mrs.  Har- 
greave ;  but  this,  partly  through  that  lady's  grieved 
manner,  partly  ovring  to  June's  new  views,  had 
been  modified  to  Mrs.  Maria.  The  new  wife  was 
anything  but  strong  when  first  married,  almost  an 
invalid  now,  and  took  on  herself  but  little  au- 
thority. 

This  was  as  well,  perhaps.  Only  one  had  ever 
ruled  Edward  Hargreave  siaoe  he  buried  his  first 


I 

•I      "'A 


..* 


ii-ifr'in-r-iftfiiitfiiiifcW  '^ 


d 


',-iT  '"i  'tV,'T\  ^msmmfpmmm 


1 


?:l 


114 


OXJB  STBEET. 


love,  ant^  that  one  was  the  bright-haired  child  who 
resembled  her  so  closely.  The  face,  however  stern 
to  othera,  softened  to  her ;  the  purse-strings,  tied 
to  others,  refused  not  to  be  loosened  at  her  de- 
mands. 7-^  •    ',::./ 

He  was  a  wealthy  man,  a  man  of  considerable 
cvdture.  A  farmer,  so  styled;  but  one  who  did 
not  injure  himself  by  hard  work.  His  estate  was 
large  and  in  good  condition,  his  vegetables  always 
of  the  best,  his  apples  and  fruits  among  the  finest 
in  the  market.  His  homp  nad  every  comfort,  his 
table  every  luxury,  but  his  outlays  were  always 
for  his  own.  His  sympathies  seldom  went  beyond 
his  own  home  and  family,  and  some  of  their 
smaller  needs  he  would  have  overlooked  had  it  not 
been  for  Juniper.  She  had  no  scruples  at  unlock- 
ing his  treasures,  and  fearlessly  encountered  his 
strong  prejudices.  *    f.  ■    ,    f,ft 

Now  as  she  sat  on  his  knee  she  exclaimed  sud- 
.denly:    ,  -  ■.-.  ".    .  -  ■'^■-*  '-n  ■  ^'-'' 

*^Here  comes  Rose,  and  her  he.    Now,  you 
piecioua  old  Fopsydil,  please  go  out  of  the  room 


J-OiMiJa  ».*.=i:lfti«»«t»«^'a 


^  'a^ilfsi^ifi^j^t^miisi^!^  <-:^ 


IT. 

ght-haired  child  who 
e  face,  however  stern 
he  purse-strings,  tied 

loosened  at  her  de- 
man  of  considerable 
d;  but  one  who  did 
ork.  His  estate  was 
bis  vegetables  always 
lits  among  the  finest 
id  every  comfort,  his 

outlays  were  always 
}  seldom  went  beyond 

and  some  of  their 
overlooked  had  it  not 
10  scruples  at  unlock- 
issly  encountered  his 

e  she  exclaimed  sud- 

her  he.  Now,  you 
e  go  out  of  the  room 


A  TBAMP. 


115 


like  a  good  old  bluo-beard,  or  the  poor  fellow  won't 
eat  half  enough."         ~        '  ;^         •    -     •;■--- 

Popsydil  obediently  set  the  miss  on  her  feet, 
and  prepared  to  go.  He  took  her  by  the  chin  and 
kissed  her  first,  however.  ^^..«.^. 

"You  are  a  most  irreverent  child,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  believe  there  is  another  like  you  in  the 
whole  world  I  "     ^  '  "  '■'""-  v-  ^  ->  "^^  ^..^.^^  ,„« 

"Of  course  there  isn't  I"  leading  him  to  the 
door;  "and  it's  lucky  for  you  that  there  isn't. 
You  know  you'd  break  the  tenth  commandment  if 
there  was,  and  never  rest  content  till  you  owned 
her,  though  like  as  not  it  would  impoverish  you." 

As  Mr.  Hargreave  disappeared  through  one 
door,  Rose  and  her  protege  appeared  at  the  other. 
The  little  girl  was  ahead,  but  holding  firmly  by 
Ike  Hobson's  jacket,  and,  as  she  ushered  him  into 
the  room,  she  said  to  her  sister,  in  a  stage- 
whisper:     -iS'^^^  "fei^i^   M,^,  SJ-ii  ^-3^  in&ii  ^£^"^'V^^. 

"  I  had  to  talk  and  talk  to  make  him  come,  and 
he  said  he  wouldn't  eat  breakfast  unless  he  could 
work  enough  to  pay  for  it.    I  promiaed — just  to 


^  I- 


-^ 

»«,1 


.^ 


v^; 


-.'(m»i^?i-!m^^imm^^:^9l^ 


iiCj*   na*    L,.i,  ^'^^.i. 


fr 


■■'■"I— --IHH- 


! 


116 


OTTB  STSSKT. 


get  him  here,  you  know.  Of  oourse  we  don't 
want  him  to  pay  —  after  he's  done  it  won't  make 
any  difijrence."    -  -•   ''     <   -  • '  '^    v  »   ;   :  5. 

"Of  course  it  will  make  a  difference,"  said 
June,  promptly.  "  I  can't  help  you  to  break  your 
word,  or  to  make  him  feel  mean  and  beggarly. 
There's  wood  enough  to  saw,  and  he  can  pay  for 
it;  but  there's  plenty  of  breakfast  first.  Take 
him  into  the  sink-room  for  a  wash."       i.;   ,>;>.< 

"  Eat  all  you  can,"  she  said  to  Ike  afterwards. 
"Those  fifitters  are  ^.ood.    I  made  them  myself." 

The  smell  was  certainly  appetizing.  Ike  had 
never  inhaled  anything  so  delicious  as  that  steam- 
ing coffee,  yellow  with  eggs  and  cream.  He 
looked  up  at  the  bright  face.  He  wished  to  thank 
June.  But,  bless  me  I  he  hadn't  any  tongue  after 
that  first  glance.  "  Just  like  a  rainbow,"  was  his 
description  to  Bry  afterwards.   Ur.:  <  ;      .  ...0   ;< 

He  did  eat,  though,  and  eat  heartily  enough  to 
please  Juniper,  who  flitted  about,  not  watching 
him,  yet  always  knowing  when  his  plate  needed  a 
fresh  supply. 


/'  ij^¥      U-  *  «. 


.Yi,--ii.ii: 


"■jiti  -.ii^/j'ti.mfiy 


A  TBAHP. 


117 


)[  oourse  we  don't 
lone  it  won't  make 

a  difference,"  said 
p  you  to  break  your 
nean  and  beggarly, 
wd  he  can  pay  for 
iakfast  first.    Take 

wash."  ■?/■   i;!    ,':-;j>;i- 

to  Ike  afterwards. 
Dade  them  myself." 
ppetizing.  Ike  had 
cious  as  that  steam- 
}  and  cream.  He 
He  wished  to  thank 
n't  any  tongue  after 
a  rainbow,"  was  his 

)  heartily  enough  to 
ibout,  not  watching 
n  his  plate  needed  a 


**■  June !  June  I "  called  a  feeble  voice  from  the 

sitting^OOm.       ::;;%;<«   ;■:  i;.u:  Sts^i^?-— ■  ViCq  i^i  ViSJri  .;^i'.',t 

*'  Rose,  go  in  and  see  what  Mrs.  Maria  wants." 

'*She  wants  you,"  reported  Rose,  a  moment 
after,  and  with  a  little  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
June  disappeared. ,/-•:  .i-tex.  fma  '?'a-:;'u\  yi  i-->  ,i;^n-t':f 

"  June,  have  you  got  that  tramp  tight  into  the 
dining-room  ?  "  The  shocked  voice  reached  Ike's 
ears,  as  well  as  the  young  lady's  suppressed 
"Hush!  why,  he  will  hear  youl  He  isn't  a 
tramp  I  he's  a  boy  with  a  nice  face.  Yes,  he  is  in 
the  dining-room.  Where  else  should  he  be  to  eat 
breakfast?"     '■ifom^ih  m  %iiM-i7!tii S'-d^diA  vyr-'^a 

"  In  the  kitchen,  where  Betty  can  watch  him, 
and  where  there  is  less  to  lose.  He  may  be  just 
spying  out  the  best  way  for  some  rogues  to  enter 
the  house.  He  may  be  even  now  stealuig  the  tea- 
spoons. Go  right  out,  June,  right  out.  What  an 
imprudent  child  you  are  I  He  must  be  watched 
closely."      :iZ'JjJMi^  bis^iii'^adfr  ..isaiaul.' Sitfcd;; 

"  You  forget  I  only  left  him  at  your  call,"  June 
retorted,  indignantly.    "He  doesn't  need  watch- 


m 


J:  ._■ 


"W" 


•* 


118 


OUB  STBEBT. 


ingi  If  he  does  you  m  ist  .do  it  —  I  will  not  I" 
going  out  and  shutting  the  door  emphatically. 

Ike  was  sitting,  his  chair  pushed  from  the  table, 
his  face  flushed.  Luckily,  his  meal  had  been 
nearly  finished  ere  the  conversation  began ;  another 
mouthful  now  would  have  choked  him.  He 
looked  up  into  the  young  girl's  face,  his  voice 
uncontrollable  with  emotion.    He  met  sympathy. 

"You  must  not  mind,"  she  said,  " The  lady  is 
sick  and  nervous,  and  does  not  know  you.  She 
would  trust  you  if  she  had  seen  you  as  I  have. 
Then  you  know  many  good  men  have  to  battle 
suspicion,  and  it  doesn't  hurt  them  when  they  are 
sure  of  themselves.  Come,  I  have  a  great  wood- 
pile, and  you  can  pay  me  in  full  for  your  break- 

'■    fast."       Yt«a   f^r.:v-r?   i  ii,:i:   ^  V -'.;;•  W•-,«^T-^       .^:^-U     ' 

June  didn't  give  Ike  a  chance  to  speak,  scarcely 
think,  in  the  next  ten  minutes.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
Igreat  wood-pile.  A  tithe  of  it  would  have  put 
old  Granny  Thorpe  beyond  all  fear  of  cold  for  the 
winter.  Ike's  saw  was  making  music  before  Jime 
was  fairly  out  of  sight.    He  worked  vigorously » 


l>»«MKt)lM<(»«i 


4  ,'     ^  -•'       .^ 

ijiimi«iiii«ii«WMm«iMi»liiMHliiri*>i.Hii»i>»iUii.i 


A  TBAMP. 


119 


)  it  — I  wiU  noti" 
loor  emphatically, 
ihed  from  the  table, 
tis  meal  had  been 
tion  began ;  anotheir 
shoked  him.  He 
rl's  face,  his  voice 
He  met  sympathy, 
jaid,  "  The  lady  is 
it  know  you.  She 
een  you  as  I  have, 
nen  have  to  battle 
hem  when  they  are 
lave  a  great  wood- 
ull  for  your  break- 


.'.■•ra,  " 


9  to  speak,  scarcely 
It  was,  indeed,  a 
it  would  have  put 
fear  of  cold  for  the 
music  before  Jime 
rorked  vigorouslyj 


and  it  did  him  good.  He  gave  vent  to  his  ill- 
feelings  thus,  and  calmed  his  spirit.  When  little 
Rose  came  out,  not  long  after,  she  found  quite  a 
heap  beside  the  wood-house.  *  «..  , 
•  The  child  sat  down  quietly  on  a  log  to  watch 
him.  Every  now  and  then  he  sent  her  a  smile. 
A  child  could  always  cause  Ike's  face  to  blossom. 
" What  is  your  name ?"  asked  Rose.  *• 

"Isaac;"  not  stopping  his  work.  - 

"Is  that  what  your  mother  calls  you?'*  >     ■, 
"  Mother's  dead.    Granny  says  Isaac,  but  Hep 
and  Beul  say  Ike."  ^i  7*;^       -   v.i  ..\'  ; xi  v 
"Who  are  Hep  and  Beul?'* 

■    "My  sisters."   '■  ^    -*^;-    '      ./;  ,'"  ;  :'-;?a:: 

"Are  they  little  like  me?"       i;    {  r  x/(      •:  . 
"No.    Hep's  tall.    She's  twelve  now.    Beul'a 


ten. 


,.4*=:^'>-? 


■:.:}»  'K 


:;a^:.,. 


i!l. 


A  pause.  ^  -s^£»c4iii:i!;A  : 
"You  like  to  saw  wood?" 
"Yes.  Hike  anything  that's  work.  I've  ached 
for  work  this  six  weeks.  It  seems  good."  '  . 
"Does  it?     Myl  I  don't  like  work.    That  is, 


1  -v 


^fwniBiiiwwaMSiBSias^ « 


liiOiiMii<i!ttiLa«,-'>'^ 


:«r-,i.-.,i.ft.'^i,v,-'.w  ■ 


OTTB  8TEEBT. 

not  dusting,  and  wiping  dishes.  I'd  like  to  make 
cake  and  pies  and  puddings,  if  old  hateful  June 
would  let  me!" 

"She's  not  old  or  hateful!"  objected  Ike. 

"  N-o  —  but  —  she's  Myraish.  She  brought  her- 
self  up,  June  did.  Aunt  Myra  tried  to,  you 
know,  but  couldn't.  It  must  be  awful  nice  to 
bring  up  one's  self.  I  wonder  how  she'd  like  me 
to  do  as  /  please,  as  she  did  ?  I'd  make  pies  the 
first  thing.' 

"  Perhaps  she  will  let  you  when  you're  older," 
suggested  Ike.  "You're  so  little  perhaps  she 
fears  you  don't  know  how." 

"Humph!  Nobody  knows  nothing  till  they 
try.  If  she'd  just  let  me  do  one  baking,  then 
she'd  know." 

Silence  followed  this  for  awhile,  then:     -      li* 

"Do  you  know  my  Aunt  Myra?"  asked  Rose. 

"No."  ...      _.^ ^ ...,„.     ^._,.;- 

"Don't  you?"  in  astonishment.  "I  thought 
everybody  knew  her,  'cause  she's  good  when  folka 
are  sick.    Well,  you'U  know  her  when  you  see 


^>'mmmm>rm»<mi'-i-  <L  j-j-iii]'..!". 


V  ''''»'<**mwtiiiikm)»A0^i&imii0Wlgigggi^ 


mmnmB. 


'.  i,  -  m. 


A  TBAMP. 


121 


I'd  like  to  make 
old  hateful  June 

objected  Ike. 
She  brought  het^ 
ra  tried  to,  you 
be  awful  nice  to 
w  she'd  like  me 
'd  make  pies  the 

n  you're  older," 
tie  perhaps  she 

Jthing  till  they 
le  baking,  then 

e,  then:  iiJ^ 

ft  ?  "  asked  Rdse. 

t.     "I  thought 

:ood  when  folks 

when  you  see 


her.  She  wears  a  straight  black  dress,  just  as 
narrow,  and  —  and  —  a  bonnet  with  a  big  green 
vail;  and  she  looks  just  like  this."  And  Miss 
Rose  drew  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  length- 
ened her  face  strangely,  puckered  up  her  lips  and 
rolled  her  eyes,  having  first  made  spectacles  of  her 
forefingers  and  thumbs  to  place  over  them. 

Ike  stopped  his  work  and  laughed ;  laughed  so 
heartily  that  Miss  Rose,  elated  with  her  success, 
repeated  the  programme. 

"  I  don't  know  why  she  wears  spectacles,  for 
her  eyes  are  sharp  enough,  and  they're  'most 
white.  They  used  to  be  blue,  you  know,  but  they 
faded,"  explained  the  performer.  "I  wish  you 
could  see  them  roll  when  June  has  on  the  blue  silk 
dress  father  bought  her,  or  when  we  have  jelly 
tarts  and  frosted  cake  for  supper."     ,-*....- 

"  I  don't  think  Miss  June  looks  anything  like 
that,"  said  Ike,  resuming  his  work.  "She  isn't 
Myraish."      .,     ;,,.;;.j.jk.  .  ..svj-u.  ■  >^^  .  ..w,>.^  .  .v-^-s- -'■ 

"  O,  no,  she  doesn't  look  like  her,  but  she's  kind 
of  hard  to  get  along  with  when  one  wants  to  cook^  * 


'% 


122 


OITB  STBEBT. 


Can  you  make  swings,  Ike  ?  "  suddenly  changing 
the  subject. 

"Yes;  nice  ones." 

"  O,  goody  I  will  you  make  one  for  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  when  I  get  my  work  done." 

"  When  will  that  be  ?  soon  ?  " 

"  Ye3,  pretty  soon." 

"O,  dear  I  I  wish  you'd  hurry.  Do  you 
B'pose  I  can  help  you?"  and  Miss  Rose  left  her 
seat  and  held  on  to  Ike's  stick. 

"Does  that  help?"  Ike  laughed,  but  he  nod- 
ded assent. 

They  worked  steadily  for  awhile,  then,  yielding 
to  the  child's  importunity,  Ike  followed  her  to 
the  barn.  They  had  a  peep  at  the  hens  as  fhey 
went,  however,  and  a  long  look  at  the  two  sleek 
horses. 

"  Papa  has  one  off  with  him,"  said  the  little 
girl,  "  and  this  black  fellow  is  June's.  Isn't  she 
lucky  ?  She  has  a  basket-carriage,  too,  and  papa 
promised  her  a  lovely  sleigh  if  she  would  stay 
at  home  this  wmter.    She  wanted  io  go  to  school, 


mmm* 


mddeuly  changing 


one  for  me?" 
done." 


hurry.     Do  you 
^iss  Rose  left  her 
z. 
ighed,  but  he  nod- 


lile,  then,  yielding 
followed  her  to 

t  the  hens  as  they 
at  the  two  sleek 

1,"  said  the  little 
June's.  Isn't  she 
ige,  too,  and  papa 
f  she  would  stay 
id  io  go  to  school, 


mmsm 


.'j.m^nrs  a- 


Hi 


'(1"l  eaj    OU'„'f..'r 


A  TBAMP. 


128 


n  'ml  kt>ti%  hit 


xlj    a.:),u   .  .t! 


:.!'HtiHfiJ^ 


•  'f',i:t         '"■'■/J!  f^-r-  J,      »i;?'^j     -■ 


'  v*.:-  ''V  .?^i  r 


but  Mrs.  Maria  is  sick.  I'd  promiae  never  to  go 
to  school  for  a  nice  sleigh,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Not  for  a  hundred,"  was  Ike's  very  decided 
answer,  and  then  the  swing  was  hung. 

How  delicious  the  barn  was  with  the  smell  of 
hay.  Ike  longed  to  stay  there.  But  he  did  not 
remain  any  longer  than  was  necessary  to  put  up 
the  swing,  notch  a  board  nicely,  and  start  Rose 
well  with  a  few  pushes ;  then  he  went  back  to  the 
wood-pile. 

All  the  discomfiture  of  the  morning  was  gone. 
Ike  whistled  gayly  as  he  swung  his  axe  and 
pushed  his  saw.  He  did  not  hear  Miss  Juniper 
approaching  until  she  stood  beside  him. 

"  You  smart  boy  1 "  she  cried.  "  Why,  you've 
earned  a  dozen  breakfasts  1  I  forgot  you  until 
now,  I  was  so  busy,  and  it's  'most  ten  o'clock. 
You've  earned  your  dinner,  so,  if  you  can't  stop  to 
eat  a  hot  one  I'll  do  up  the  best  I've  got.  Have 
you  far  to  go?" 

"  I  don't  know,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Where  were  you  going?    Perhaps  I  know  the 


J  "..; 


^ 


1:U 


017R  STREET. 


disftanoe?  If  it's  on  this  road  you  may  get  a 
chance  to  ride  witli  some  countryman  going  by. 
Were  you  going  W way?" 

"  I  have  no  particular  place.  I  am  going  any- 
where that  I  call  find  work." 

"  O I  This  is  a  poor  time  to  look  for  work  this 
way.     What  is  your  name?" 

"  Isaac  Paul  Hobson." 

"  Isaac  Paul ;  both  Bible  names.  You  ought  to 
be  very  good.  Have  you  a  father  and  mother, 
Isaac?" 

"  Yes,  miss,  in  heaven.  Granny  and  Hephzibah 
ftnd  Beulah  and  I  live  together." 

Hephzibah  and  Beulah  I  What  funny  names! 
I  never  heard  them  before." 

"They're  both  out  of  the  Bible.  Granny 
named  them." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  read  my  Bible  any  too  much 
in  my  life.     Is  granny  your  own  grandmother  ?  " 

"Yes,  miss." 

"  Then,  if  I  were  you  I'd  call  her  grandmother  ; 
it  sounds  better."    Then,  all  unconscious  of  the 


•!rs«aW^S!»S("!  "'KXSLasy**' 


■HH 


A  TBAMP. 


126 


d   you   may  get  A 
iitryman  going  by. 

I  am  going  any- 

look  for  work  thii 


les.    You  ought  to 
ather  and  mother, 

iny  and  Hephzibah 

ler. 

bat  ftuny  names! 

Bible.      Granny 

ble  any  too  much 
n  grandmother?" 

her  grandmother ; 
noonsciouB  of  the 


heightened  color  with  which  this  criticism  wat 
received,  Miss  June  stood  a  moment  with  pursed 
lips  and  contracted  brows. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  hire  you  myself,  Isaao } 
how  would  you  like  that?"   she  said. 

There  was  small  reason  to  ask  the  question. 
Ike's  eyes  unswered  it  unmistakably. 

"  There's  more  work  than  Tom  can  do,"  con- 
tinued the  girl,  as  if  trying  to  convince  herself 
rather  than  her  listener.  "  Betty  is  always  grum- 
bling because  the  wood  is  not  split,  and  there  are 
those  apples  to  pick  over.  Yes,  I  will  keep  you, 
Ike.  I  know  you're  a  good  boy  to  work,  and  to 
be  trusted.    What  wages  would  you  want?" 

"  What  I  am  worth.  If  I  only  earn  my  board 
this  winter  that's  better  than  being  on  granny — 
grandmother,  I  mean." 

"  Very  well.  You'll  be  sure  to  earn  more  than 
that.  I  will  need  you  presently  to  pick  over  the 
apples.  But  for  the  present —  Have  you  seen 
anything  of  Rose?" 

"Yes,  miss.    She's  in  the  barn,  swinging." 


K 


,  »t> 


*.■>! 


,  I 


i 


mmmmtimiiimm 


.I.XliJL 


m 


126 


OUB  STEEET. 


'  "O  I  then  you've  hung  her  a  swing/"  with  a 
bright  flash  of  the  eyes.  "  I'm  glad.  You  can  go 
swing  her  now,  or  do  'most  anjrthing  until  1  need 
you.  I  wouldn't  saw  any  more  wood  to-day,"  and 
June  was  gone.       '       -'•     ^     ^   '"•     f       -    u.^?;;? 

There  was  time  for  quite  a  romp  in  the  barn, 
the  sawing  of  a  little  more  wood,  and  the  neat 
piling  of  all  before  June  summoned  Ike  to  the 
apple-bin,  with  sundry  directions  ending  thus: 
"  Eat  all  the  apples  you  want.    We  have  plenty." 

The  new  boy  was  evidently  a  grand  thing  to 
Rose.  She  flitted  about,  wciking  some,  but  talk- 
ing more,  and  about  noon-time  darted  off,  return- 
ing immediately  to  say  Miss  June  wanted  him. 

"It's  'cause  Mrs.  Maria  wants  to  see  you," 
added  the  sprite,  as  they  went  up-stairs  together. 

"  You  won't  care.  Of  course  she  wishes  to  see 
you  as  I  have  hired  you  for  good,"  added  Miss 
June,  to  a  r-petition  of  the  news  above.  "  She 
will  like  you,  I  know ;  and  if  she  does  not  it  will 
make  no  difference." 

So  Ike  was  ushered  into  the  augus'.  presence." 


*••■ 


?^^^- 


wiii 


A  TBAMP. 


a  swing  /  "  with  a 

glad.    You  can  go 

jrthing  until  1  need 

I  wood  to-day,"  and 

I  romp  in  the  barn, 
rood,  and  the  neat 
moned  Ike  to  the 
ions  ending  thus: 
We  have  plenty." 
a  grand  thing  to 
ng  some,  but  talk- 
darted  off,  return- 
June  wanted  him. 
anta  to  see  you," 
up-stairs  together. 
)  she  wishes  to  see 
good,"  added  Miss 
Bws  above.  "She 
lie  does  not  it  will 

i  augus'  presence. 


Mrs.  Maria  Hargreave  was  a  tall,  slender  lady, 
with  a  very  pallid  countenance,  tired-looking  blue 
eyes,  soft,  drab  hair,  and  a  weak,  nervous  voice. 
Ike,  crimson  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  bowed,  as  he 
came  to  a  standstill,  and  said  stammeringly, 
"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Maguire."  ^    .   .    • 

Juniper  stifled  a  laugh  in  a  little  half-sob,  half- 
giggle.    Mrs.  Hargreave  looked  shocked. 

"  You  see  the  results  of  your  disrespect  now. 
I  hope  you  are  satisfied,  Juniper,"  she  said, 
reproachfully.  -  ..  , -;  • 

June  was  truly  sorry,  but  she  was  obliged  to 
keep  silent.  She  feared  to  open  her  mouth  lest 
her  repressed  merriment  would  explode.  It  was 
too  funny,  and  poor  Ike  so  evidently  puzzled  at 
the  cause  of  the  offence.  She  managed  o  keep  a 
sober  face  througl  bhe  questioning  and  cross-ques- 
tioning of  her  protege;  but  the  door  scarcely 
closed  after  them  when  she  burst  into  a  merry 
laugh.    '  '        -  •  '"  >; 

"O,  you  funny  fellow  1"  she  said  to  Ike. 
"  That  is  not  a.  Mrs.  Maguire,  but  Mrs.  Hargreave, 


*   t    'A 


JMiliinriiii 


wsm 


128 


OnS  BTBBBT. 


my  father's  wife."  Then,  to  alleviate  t'le  distress 
on  the  boy's  countenance:  "You  are  not  in  the 
least  to  blame.  It  is  my  fault.  I  call  her  Mrs. 
Maria,  and  you  made  a  mistake.  No  one  will 
blame  you.  I  am  the  guilty  party,  and,  remem- 
ber, all  your  sins  will  be  visited  on  me,  since  I 
have  hired  you  on  my  own  responsibility." 

June  did  not  know  what  a  strong  incentive  she 
was  giving  the  new  boy  to  put  him  on  Us  best 
behavior.      Henceforth  Ike  walked  softly.  •"  '    * 

Mr.  Hargreave  was  not  particularly  well  pleased 
with  the  account  given  him  by  his  wife,  on  his  late 
coming  home.  Mrs.  Hargreave  had  the  first 
opportunity  and  improved  it.  The  gentleman  was 
seriously  annoyed  by  his  wife's  account  of  Ike's 
blunder,  and  sought  his  daughter  with  a  clouded 

brow.     ■■        ■'"---'■■'      -       -V---*    -,.,.-.,.,■.,:...,.-:;/    ;_..fee 

Who  shall  explain  Miss  Juniper  Hargreave's 
legerdemain?  In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  her 
father  was  laughing  uproariously  at  her  exagger- 
ated and  well-acted  account  of  Ike's  interview  With 
her  step-mother.  She  certainly  had  a  strange  way 
of  carrying  her  own  point. 


msi 


IT. 

illeviate  fie  distress 
You  are  not  in  the 
It.  I  call  her  Mrs. 
stake.    No  one  will 

party,  and,  remem- 
sited  on  me,  since  I 
responsibility." 
strong  incentive  she 
put  him  on  his  best 
talked  softly. 
Lcularly  well  pleased 
'  his  wife,  on  his  late 
save    had   the  first 

The  gentleman  was 
)'s  account  of  Ike's 
;hter  with  a  clouded 

uniper  Hargreave's 
fifteen  minutes  her 
isly  at  her  exagger- 
Ike's  interview  ^th 
ly  had  a  strange  way 


A  TBAMP. 


129 


"Now,  Popsydil,  you  know  well  enough  that 
you  hire  extra  men  in  busy  times  without  a  word 
of  advice  from  me,  and  bring  them  in  for  me  to 
feed ;  and  I  can't  see  the  difference  in  my  hiring 
a  boy  when  I  need  one,  and  sending  him  to  you 
for  wages."*,,.,,,., -^  ^,^,^,,  ..,,..  ,..,    ,__,    ,  ^:.  ,  ^_,,.  ., 

This  was  all,  of  the  long  conversation  held  in 
the  sitting-room,  that  Ike  heard  as  he  passed 
through  the  dining-room  on  an  enand  for  Betty. 
Miss  June  must  be  talking  of  him,  and  to  the 
master.  Ike's  heart  beat  high,  but  he  said  no 
word.  Betty's  accounts  of  her  master  certainly 
did  not  serve  to  reassure  him,  and  long  after  the 
maid  was  in  bed  he  sat  pondering  his  duty,    i 

Ought  he  not  to  go  away?  Miss  June  would 
only  get  herself  in  trouble,  perhaps,  and  he  didn't 
wish  to  live  where  he  wasn't  wanted,  needed.  In 
the  midst  of  his  unpleasant  cogitations  Mr.  Har- 
greave  surprised  him.   \  ,;,  „ ,  . 

There  was  a  merry  twinkle  in  the  gentleman's 
eyes  as  he  confronted  the  lad,  a  twinkle  that  added 
a  smile  to  his  lips  as  the  boy  sprang  to  his  feet. 


4 

4 


1/ 


i       'v'V 


«&-HW««*) 


'  **U«55«S 


mm 


mmvmmimmmmmi^iiiittmam*^ 


Ji 


lii'iiitiniiiiif 


180 


OXTB  STBEET. 


"Well,  and  this  is  Miss  June's  last  notion?" 
said  he,  eyeing  the  lad  half  curiously.  "Not  a 
bad  one,  either,  if  we  are  to  believe  her  testimony 
and  that  of  the  wood-pile.  '  New  brooms  sweep 
clean';  is  that  it,  hey?"  ,,     ..... 

"  Good  brooms  alw  ays  sweep  clean."  (Where 
did  Ike  find  courage  to  say  this?)  .;  >,  , 

"Do  they?"  laughing;  "and  you're  a  good 
one  ?  Well,  I  hope  so.  Do  you  know  anything 
of  farming,  young  man?"     >      .    :  . .;    ■•    ..-*  i 

" No,  sir ;  but  I  can  learn."     i      vk         ;.   iUi 

The  answer  pleased  the  gentleman — Ike  had  a 
frank  way  of  winning  hearts — and  he  extended 
his  hand,  v-  ■  -■■■■-  -i     '-'^      ^i.^  :,:    r      .vu.,'.i». 

"  I  make  no  doubt  you  can.  If  you  are  a  good, 
fulthful  boy,  I  may  try  you  next  summer.  Per- 
haps Miss  June  is  right  again.  You  are  to  obey 
her,  remember,  and  she  is  to  answer  for  your 
shortK^omings.  She  seems  very  willing  to  bear 
them.  Good  night ; "  and  the  gentleman  disap- 
peared. '  .       "  -   .  V      '..T.--     ;.?"-    I 

Disappeared  into  the  hall,  where  two  eager 
hands  waited  to  grasp  him. 


'■■■'"S^J : 


r. 

line's  last  notion?" 
curiously.  "Not  a 
slieve  her  testimony 
New  brooms  sweep 

3p  clean."  (Where 
this?)  -^  >. 

and  you're  a  good 
)rou  know  anything 


itleman — Ike  had  a 
—  and  he  extended 

If  you  are  a  good, 
next  summer.  Per- 
.  You  are  to  obey 
to  answer  for  your 
<ry  willing  to  bear 
le  gentleman  disap- 


A  TBAMP. 


181 


"You  blessed  old  PopsydU !  You  did  well  I " 
said  a  merry  voice,  as,  with  a  little  spring,  two 
arms  were  twined  chokingly  round  the  gentleman's 
neck.    ... . ..-, .   '.  >  _  - .  -.:<i..:  .■>  -  'J 

"  You  little  spy  I "  unclasping  the  hands,  and 
whisking  her  into  the  bright  sitting-room.  "  How 
do  you  know  I  did  well?"  •;  ;  ,        ,   i.  ss 

"  I  put  my  ear  to  the  keyhole,^'  eyes  falling  in 
prettily-assumed  shame.  ,"  I  beg  your  pardon ;  but 
I  was  so  anxious,  and  —  and  —  I've  confessed,  so 
it's  not  so  dreadful.  And  you  precious  old 
thing!"  white  arms  again  endangering  respira- 
tion, "  you  made  him  feel  so  well,  and  I  love  you 
dearly.  But  dear  me!  I  must  show  him  his 
room."    .,      <  j-.r- .;:-v: 7^  ;;--,;-:--•'■:  ^-.- -'.';.-,    '  ' 


i 


,  where  two   eager 


;1-,,vi..,;    -;.,,.. 


/3£.'. 


■MMIiiiHlitlli 


(i  I  r 


T'/:O\-0i 


t';-'f  n     \ 


n 


'*i 


yp^mm 


<• 


■■•y 


•        :    CHAPTER  vm. 

▲  FOUND-OUT  AND  ITS  OUTOOlfE. 

Ti  yriSS  JUNIPER'S  good  opinion  of  Ike  was 
•*■'-■■  soon  more  than  confirmed  by  the  rest  of 
the  household.  In  less  than  a  month  he  was  an 
absolute  necessity,  and  that  not  only  to  June  and 
Betty.  -  -  ,  .     •_^..^^^, 

He  was  willing  to  work,  and  handy,  Tom  said* 
and  Mr.  Hargreave,  always  in  a  hurry,  soon  found 
he  could  harness  a  horse  quicker  than  anyone 
else,  and  that  it  was  safer  to  trust  a  heated  beast 
in  his  hands  than  in  those  of  Tom. 

No  carelessness  with  Ike.  The  horses  were 
always  well  rubbed  down  and  blanketed  and 
188 


A  FOUND-OUT  AKD  rrs  OUTCOME. 


188 


cooled  before  eating,  when  he  had  them  in  charge  ; 
always  sleek  and  ehlny  after  his  brush. 

Of  course  Miss  Rose  thought  he  was  hired  espe- 
cially for  her  benefit,  and  even  Mrs.  Maria  found 
he  could  build  her  fire  with  less  dirt  and  noise 
than  Betty ;  and  that  he  drove  the  horse  more 
quietly  than  Tom  when  she  wished  to  ride.  Ike 
had  been  very  attentive  to  her,  and  had  tried  hard 
to  win  her  favor ;  partly  because  she  was  an 
invalid,  partly  because  he  wished  to  make  amends 
for  his  unfortunate  blunder  on  the  morning  of  his 
arrival. 

He  worked  hard,  but.  was  never  overworked. 
His  evenings  were  seldom  occupied.  Occasionally 
a  little  meat  to  hash,  or  a  few  apples  to  pare,  but 
generally  nothing  harder  than  a  good  book  to 
read ;  for  June  was  a  kind  mistress,  a]id,  finding 
her  boy  fond  of  books,  supplied  him  liberally,  both 
from  her  own  library  and  her  father's. 

He  never  visited  his  grandmother  or  Bry  with- 
out a  basket  of  apples  or  some  little  gift  from 
Juniper,  who  was  much  interested  in  them  both. 


.<-'''i\ 


MM 


iM 


I 


« 


# 


mm 


^^r^^^^*^w^^^^^Q|^^;;^;;^J_J;_^__.^j^l_JJ_^Ji^^  ■*"  ■ "-''- '  ■ '  -'-^ 


m 


•'-< 


OT7B  BTBEXT. 


c.firi    1^ 


Old  granny  and  Bryony  both  missed  Tke's  helpful 
ways  and  cheery  words,  but  both  likewise  rejoiced 
in  his  prosperity,  and  in  the  roundness  already 
perceivable  in  his  limbs  and  face.  Good  fare  and 
an  easy  mind  were  showing  their  work  on  Ike, 
and  he  had  even  "grown  a  bit  taller,"  granny 
said.  < 

On  Our  Street  things  went  on  much  as  usual. 
Bry  had  new  neighbors,  a  Mr.  Ezekiels  and  his 
family  having  moved  into  the  chambers  vacated 
by  Edward  Parker. 

A  strange  specimen  of  mankind  was  this  same 
Ezekiels ;  a  specimen  of  ruined  manhood,  for  the 
little  original  sense  he  possessed  had  long  since 
been  washed  away  by  whisky.  Mr.  Ezekiels  was 
a  specimen  of  the  work  done  by  Mr.  Jenkins  and 
his  numerous  fraternity.  -      -v.t 

He  was  a  little,  pinched-up  affair,  with  a  red 
nose,  and  lackadaisical  countenance,  a  pair  of 
blinking  eyes,  and  ill-kept  hair  and  beard.  He 
was  small,  very  small,  every  way,  and  loved  bad 
whisky  a  little  better  than  anything  else  in  this 


tmmm 


,.ityi:.fit;.     r". 

issed  Tke's  helpful 
b  likewise  rejoiced 
roundness  already 
e.  Good  fare  and 
heir  work  on  Ike, 
it  taller,"  granny 

m  much  as  usual. 
Ezekiels  and  his 
chambers  vacated 

[nd  was  this  same 
manhood,  for  the 

ed  havi  long  since 
Mr.  Ezekiels  was 

f  Mr.  Jenkins  and 

affair,  with  a  red 
(nance,  a  pair  of 
r  and  beard.  He 
ay,  and  loved  bad 
'thing  else  in  this 


A  Fv)xmi>-oirr  Ain>  rrs  outcome. 


185 


world  or  another.  It  is  even  questionable  if  he 
knew  of  anything  else  in  this  world  or  another, 
unless  it  was  his  wife's  shoe.  He  couldn't  well 
help  knowing  something  about  that,  as  well  ac- 
quainted as  it  had  become  with  his  back. 

Most  people  called  him  "  Old  Zeke."  He  called 
himself  "  Mr.  'Zek-els,"  with  a  hiccough  between 
the  two  syllables  into  which  he  divided  it. 

Elizabeth  Ezekiels,  or  Lize,  as  almost  everybody 
called  her,  was  tall  and  wiry.  A  meeker,  more 
timid  and  shrinking  girl  few  men  have  ever  led  to 
the  altar  than  was  she  when  Thomas  Ezekiels 
married  her.  But  a  long  life  with  one  of  rum's 
weakest  slaves  had  strangely  changed  her.  The 
quiet  voice  had  become  harsh  and  grating,  the 
light  step  quick  and  determined,  the  soft  eyes 
bright  and  defiant,  the  timid  spirit  bold  and  dar- 
ing; to-day  she  ruled  with  a  rod  of  iron  where 
once  she  had  crouched  like  a  slave. 

But  this  had  been  the  work  of  time.  For  years 
she  had  borne  harsh  words  and  cruel  blows,  hard 
labor  and  stinted  fare.    At  the  hist  it  was  the 


^ 


itoteiffla 


ttrnk* 


t.:!i*,Stil^^Stlttii.!S&1a 


ft- 


OUB  STREET.  '••    \ 

cruelty  of  this  man  she  called  husband  to  her 
child  and  his,  their  first-born,  her  George  Wash- 
ington, her  heart's  idol,  that  roused  the  tigress 
within  her.  She  felled  him  to  the  earth  that  hour, 
and  learned  the  fatal  secret  of  her  strength. 

Unlucky  knowledge  this  for  Ezekiels.  No 
longer  her  hard  earnings  went  to  swell  the  coffers 
of  the  nimseller.  He  who  had  feasted,  fasted ; 
he  who  had  glutted  unto  beastliness,  thirsted  unto 
madness;  but  no  arguments  moved  her  heart  of 
adamant,  no  honied  words  unlocked  her  steeled 
bosom. 

"  Work,  if  you  wish  to  drink ;  I  have  enough  to 
do  to  feed  you."  But  work  he  would  not,  and,  a 
cringing  fool,  he  hung  around  the  drinking-houses, 
now  and  again  regaled  by  some  more  fortunate 
chum  pitying  his  poverty,  or  by  a  penny  draught 
purchased  with  the  coppers  coaxed  from  his  little 
children.  .    ,  ,♦   . 

Perhaps    it    wus    a    misfortune    to    Elizabeth 
Ezekiels  as  well  as  her  husband  that  she  learned  < 
the  secret  of  her  strength.    It  certainly  robbed 


-i«"^w«n< 


A  FOUNI>-OUT  AND  ITS  OUTCOME. 


187 


husband  to  her 
ler  George  Wash- 
oused  the  tigress 
le  earth  that  hour, 

her  strength. 
ir  Ezekiels.  No 
)  swell  the  coffers 
d  feasted,  fasted ; 
less,  thirsted  unto 
>ved  her  heart  of 
icked  her  steeled 

I  have  enough  to 
tvould  not,  and,  a 
B  drinking-houses, 
e  more  fortunate 
a  penny  draught 
ed  from  his  little 

ne  to  Elizabeth 
that  she  learned 
certainly  robbed 


her  of  the  little  womanliness  and  gentlenenn  she 
possessed,  all  that  was  left  to  her  of  her  lost  girl- 
hood. 

Yet,  in  good  truth,  what  right  has  a  drunkard's 
wife  to  womanliness  aird  gentleness  ?  Hers  is  the 
heritage  of  shame,  of  cruel  blows,  and  words  more 
cruel  still.  A  beast  alone  should  wed  a  beast. 
God  pity  her  who,  in  her  degradation,  yet 
feels. 

Better  a  heart  of  stone,  for  flesh  bleeds.  But, 
mark  yon ;  when  the  last  rod  drop  is  gone  it 
hardens  into  steel.  Did  he  not  know  of  life  who 
wrote:      .       . 

"  Be  void  or  feeling  I    A  heart  that  scon  is  stirred, 
Is  a  possession  sad  upon  this  changing  earth." 

The  neighbors  interested  Bryony,  as  everything 
did.  She  could  not  count  the  children  at  first, 
thoy  seemed  so  much  of  a  size,  so  like  in  feature ; 
but  their  noise  overhead  often  sent  her  to  bed 
with  throbbing  temples.      •  '"-"  '"'"'' 

She  was  very  kind  and  patient  with  the  little 


MiM 


ifAmmt 


MMMbiiilMMMlMiHH 


188 


OUB  BTBEST. 


things,  yrho  darted  in  and  out  of  her  room, 
peeping  into  everything,  aslcing  unheard-of  ques- 
tions, twirling  their  fingers  from  their  noses  at  her. 
Sometimes  slie  coaxed  tliem  to  her  side  for  a  little, 
and  told  them  the  stories  of  which  she  was  so  full. 
What  cliild  is  not  charmed  by  a  ready  invention? 
Ere  long,  from  George  Washington  to  three-year- 
old  May,  she  had  one  means  of  controlling  them, 
and  when  banished  from  home  they  would  seek 
her  side,  promising  to  be  still  if  she  would  tell  a 
story.  .    '\ 

Po  »r  Bry  1  She  prayed  very  much  for  her  new 
friends.  The  sound  of  harsh  words  above  sent 
her  repeatedly  to  her  medicine  and  medicine  Giver 
inquiring  how  she  could  help  them.  Elizabeth 
had  been  very  kind  to  Bry  from  the  first.  Her 
woman's  heart  had  gone  out  to  the  orphaned 
cripple,  and  she  came  in  often  to  do  little  chores, 
or  bring  her  some  tid-bit. 

In  return  for  this  Bry  loved  her  warmly,  and 
loved  no  less,  in  an  angelic  way,  the  poor  littld 
miserable-looking  man,  who  slunk  out  of  his  wife's 


▲   FOUNI>-OIIT  AND  ITB  OUTOOMR. 


189 


)ut  of  her  room, 
Df  unheard-of  ques- 
1  their  noRes  at  her. 
her  Hide  for  a  little, 
ich  she  was  so  full, 
a  ready  invention? 
gton  to  three-year- 
l  controlling  them, 
e  they  would  seek 
if  she  would  tell  a 

r  much  for  her  new 
I  words  above  sent 
and  medicine  Giver 
)  them.  Elizabeth 
rom  the  first.  Her 
t  to  the  orphaned 
to  do  little  chores, 

sd  her  warmly,  and 
way,  the  poor  littld 
ink  out  of  his  wife's 


presence  much  after  the  pattern  of  a  whipped  dog. 
She  followed  him  down  the  street  often  with 
sorrowing  eyes  and  questioning  heart,  but  Dick 
despised  him.  In  his  youth  and  strength  he 
looked  with  disgust  upon  that  to  which  his  foot- 
steps hastened. 

One  cold  day  Dick  wa  home  from  work.  He 
was  a  carpenter,  and  there  were  times  when  the 
weather  made  his  labor  impossible.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  old  Ezekiels  came  reeling  home.  He 
had  met  with  friends,  and  got  enough  for  once. 
Dick,  sitting  at  the  window,  gave  an  impatient 
grunt  as  he  saw  hi  .1. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Bry.  "01  poor  Mr. 
'Zekiels.  O,  Dicky  1  he's  sick  —  very  sick.  Go 
help  him  in,  or  he'll  fall." 

"  Sick  I  "  said  Dick,  sarcastically ;  "  sick  1  Yes  I 
drunk,  you'd  better  say ! " 

Bry  looked  at  him  with  round,  inquiring  eyes. 

"Drunk?"  she  said  after  him,  slowly,  "is 
everybody  drunk  that  acts  like  that?'' 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Dick. 


--"•siKmmmmm 


ggggjgaitBwmii1>ir<ir»«'i>i«>>i'''i»i»»ii'ii  II  iiiwwwwn 


OUB  STBBBT.         ,->-—-^  A 

Bry  lay  back  in  her  chair,  forgetful,  for  a  mo- 
ment, of  everything,  even  the  poor  man  on  the 
sidewalk.  Sha  was  so  stiU  Dick  turned  to  her. 
The  pallor  of  her  face  frightened  him.  He 
thought  she  was  fainting.  ,  ■     -  - 

"  Bryony,  are  you  sick?  "  he  cried.  He  was  a 
loving,  warm-hearted  boy.    "What  is  it,  dear?" 

She  put  out  one  hand  to  him  imploringly,  and 
asked  piteously,  "Not  always,  Dicky  dear,  not 
always  drunk  when  they  look  so  ?  You  look  like 
that,  sometimes."  - 

Dick's  fav.e  crimsoned  with  shame,  yet  he  spoke 
the  truth:  "Yes,  little  Bry,  always." 

"  O  Dick !  Dick !  vrhat'  shall  I  do  ?  "  Such  a 
moan  of  despair.  Dick  felt  the  perspiration  start 
to  his  forehead  as  he  got  up  and  walked  the  room. 

When  he  sat  down  again  little  Bry's  hand 
grasped  her  Bible  tightly,  her  eyes  devouring 
some  verse.  ,v  '^  \ 

"'Look  not  thou  upon  the  wine  when  it  is 
red,' "  he  interrupted  hei',  his  voice  full  of  the  ear- 
nest impulse  of  the  hour.    "  That's  it,  Bry  I    '  Look 


A  rOUND-OUT  AND  ITS  OUTCOMB. 


141 


,  forgetful,  for  a  mo- 
e  poor  man  on  the 
Dick  turned  to  her. 
^htened   him.      He 

le  cried.  He  was  a 
What  is  it,  dear?' 
lim  imploringly,  and 
[Ts,  Dicky  dear,  not 
:  so  ?     Tou  look  like 

shame,  yet  he  spoke 
always." 

ill  I  do  ?  "  Such  a 
he  perspiration  start 
nd  walked  the  room. 
1  little  Bry's  hand 
her  eyes   devouring 

he  wine  when  it  is 
voice  full  of  the  ear- 
hat's  it,  Bry  I    'Look 


not  1 '  If  I  never  looked  I'd  never  drink.  But 
I'll  stop  1  I  will  stop  1  I've  entered  Jenks'  for 
the  last  time." 

He  placed  his  hand  on  her  head  as  he  spoke, 
and  she  drew  first  it  and  then  his  lips  to  her  fuoe. 
"You  never  told  me  a  lie,"  she  said. 

Weeks  flew  by,  and  Dick  kept  his  pledge,  but 
old  'Zekiels  had  a  new  place  in  Bry's  thoughts. 
Her  father  had  died  from  strong  drink.  Could 
she  not  save  th's  man? 

Meanwhile  things  went  on  as  usual  upnstairs. 

One  afternoon,  after  a  morning's  hard  work  out 
washing,  Lize  was  cleaning  up  her  house,  working 
busily,  scolding  furiously.     - 

''  J+'s  very  strange  all  this  work  is  left  to  me. 
The  ashes  ain't  even  emptied.  I'm  ashamed  of 
you,  Tom  Ezekiels !  You  haven't  a  smart  bone  in 
your  body."  .    ..   ,  j;     .  ;    .  ,     ►^^    ■ 

"Bessie,  my  dear,  Bessie,  I'll  clear  out  the 
ashes,"  stammered  the  gentleman  addressed,  in  an 
exasperatingly  soft,  silly  manner.       -         ■»  - ,  ~     ' 

"  O I  you  will,  will  you  ?    Then  why  wasn't  it 


w»ite«pfet«teti»t<Li.%trtiWiniw 


142 


0T7B  BTBEBT. 


ii 


done  before  ?  None  of  your  Bessjing  me  I  Bessie 
indeed !  Bessie  I  A  darling,  an  angel,  a  tender- 
ling. Bessie !  Washerwoman,  budget,  nursery- 
maid, old  drudge,  and  the  mother  of  a  hundred 
and  one  children!"  .^  —    "^ 

Mrs.  Ezekiels  was  wont  to  sum  up  all  her 
troubles  in  this  way,  recently :  "  The  mother  of  a 
hundred  and  one  children,  and  that  poor  lirtle 
orphan  with  no  mother  in  the  i^  crld  I "  Did  it 
never  strike  her  that  little  Bry,  motherless,  was  as 
well  off  as  many  children  possessing  an  article  so 
labelled? 

"Elizabeth,  don't  'zaggerate.  Not  a  hundred 
and  one  1  only  eleven,"  interrupted  the  husband. 
' "  "  That's  just  the  same,  with  the  cipher  left  out, 
you  numb-head  1 "  shouted  George  Washington, 
irreverently.  -     -  -  ■  5-'    ^'J''     <* urp- ■«?«■'■■•>  u.o\ 

"Elizabeth,  children  —  children  are — are  a  — 
a  crown  of  honor  to  a  woman,"  stammered  the  old 
gentleman,  waxing  eloquent.       ^  t  *^  J >?    rrMi^:*- 
;      "  Shut  up,  you  old  fool  I"  was  the  very  encour- 
aging reception  his  eloquence  received.    "Don't 


W^iJtJk-^ 


mmm 


•••'■> 


issyingmel  Bessie 
lu  angel,  a  tender- 
n,  budget,  nursery- 
other  of  a  hundred 

o  sum  up  all  her 
**  The  mother  of  a 
id  that  poor  lit^tle 
le  Tvcrld!"  Did  it 
r,  motherless,  was  as 
sssing  an  article  so 

«.    Not  a  hundred 

upted  the  husband. 

the  cipher  left  out, 

eorge   Washington, 

-     <<iU*  ^;%v-^-:."    '''-ft; 

dren  are — are  a  — 
"  stammered  the  old 


'.•-!■  *>..'S.fP. 


TOB  the  very  encour- 
5  received.    "Don't 


A  FOUlffD-OUt  AJSTD  ITS  OUTCOME.         143 

Elizabeth  me.  Elizabeth's  a  queen.  Elizabeth, 
indeed  1  My  rags  look  like  velvet,  and  my  old 
hack  like  a  crown  I    Get  out  of  this  I " 

"  Now,  Lize,  you're  cross  again.  You  shouldn't 
git  mad  when  a  feller's  only  trying  to  be  civil." 

"  Civil  1  I'll  civil  you  if  you  call  me  Lize 
again.  That's  what  a  woman  comes  to !  Once 
butter  wouldn't  melt  in  your  mouth  with  your 
Bessying  and  Elizabething.  O,  yes  1  I'm  nothing 
but  eld  Lize  now,  old  slouch,,  old  sloven,  old 
slave  1 " 

"  Mrs.  'Zek-'els,"  meekly  interposed  the  husband 
at  this  juncture,  "  Mrs.  'Zek-'els,  you  are  as  dear 
to  me  as  ever.    I  honor  you  as  the  mother  of —  " 

"Your  brats  1"  interrupting  violently.  "You 
ever  call  me  Mrs.  Ezekiels  again,  and  I'll  help 
you  down-stairs.  Mrs.  Ezekiels  indeed  I  I  am 
sunk  low  when  that  is  flung  in  my  face.  You 
needn't  taunt  me  with  being  fool  enough  to 
marry  you  —  I'm  sure  you've  got  the  best  of  it. 
Get  out  of  this  house,  or  —  "  Mrs.  Ezekiels 
stooped  to  loosen  her  shoe,  and  her  husband 
disappeared. 


ffiigWWitiw***'!*' 


^trilmiiii  I  If  iiii  i>iiiliiriir  iii 


MBiaaiteiiaaaB 


ii  ' 


144 


0X7B  BTBEET. 


<i:-t      A; 


Bry  heard  the  angry  voices  above,  she  heard  the 
slouchy  step  on  the  stairs.  "  He's  going  to  Mr. 
Jenkins'  again.  P'r'aps  I  can  stop  him,"  she 
thought.    So  at  the  door  she  met  him. 

"  Will  you  come  in  and  sit  with  me  and  talk, 
Mr.  Ezekiels  ?  "  she  said,  timidly.  « I'm  lonesome 
sometimes."  And  he  slouched  into  the  room  and 
into  a  chair,  after  a  furtive  glance  around.  He 
did  not  seem  disp'^sed  to  talk,  but  this  did  not 
trouble  Bry  so  long  as  she  had  him  there,  so  she 
sat  wondering  how  he  had  looked  when  young. 
Certainly,  never  like  her  Dick!         v  ^  .,s      * 

Suddenly  the  company  broke  silence.         {    <■ 

.  "  This  is  a  good  fire.    It's  heaps  warmer  here 
than  there."  .•»,?.  .,.;;;    :  "    <. 

"Where?"  asked  Bry,  innocently;    "at  Mr. 

Jenkins'?"       .  .    ,  -        -;  ^  i-?* 

Foolish  Bry  1  Did  she  not  know  that  Mr.  Jen- 
kinu'  saloon  was  the  drunkard's  paradise?  Poor 
old  Zeke  never  felt  prouder  than  when  he  was 
rich  enough  to  purchase  an  entrance,  for  Mr. 
Jenkins  never  allowed  hangers-on —  that  is,  of  the 
poor  kind.  ;,;•;;.    :  ..V  ::.La.-ti^:rfill-. 


1 


'^''■^R*4Si-. 


msm 


Hiiiiiiioiiiiiiimiiii ''[.. 


.vt  .(, 


A  FOUND-OUT  AHD  ITS  OUTCOME. 


145 


)Ove,  she  heard  the 
He's  going  to  Mr. 
,n  stop  him,"  she 
met  him. 
;  with  me  and  talk, 
jr.  "  I'm  lonesome 
into  the  room  and 
lance  around.  He 
:,  but  this  did  not 
,  him  there,  so  she 
loked  when  young. 

k!      .:...,,   .„:..^^- 

ke  silence.    .     {.;.<; 
heaps  warmer  here 

locently;    "at  Mr. 

know  that  Mr.  Jen- 
I's  paradise?  Poor 
than  when  he  was 
entrance,  for  Mr. 
-on —  that  is,  of  the 


"No,"  answered  Zeke ;  "I  meant  up  ihere," 
pointing  to  the  ceiling.    "Lize  is  mostly  cross.'* 

"She  works  hard,  and  gets  tired,"  said  Bry, 
defensively.     ;  -         -  ■-  .-...,.-■. is 

"  It  ain't  that  as  ails  her,"  replied  Zeke.  « I "  — . 
bending  his  head  forward  with  a  knowing  wink 
and  lowering  his  voice  —  "I  began  wrong  with 
her."  He  looked  around  sheepishly  after  saying 
this,  as  if  expecting  the  well-worn  shoe.    -^^-^  ""-'^ 

Bry  had  no  answer  to  make,  of  course,  so,  see- 
ing no  danger  from  a  shoe,  he  continued:        " 

"Wimmen  is  wimmen,  and  they's  growing 
bold  ;  they're  mostly  cunnin',  too.  Yer  see  you've 
got  to  begin  right.  Wimmen  need  man'gin',  they 
does.     No,  I  didn't  begin  right."  ^^  *        ^  = 

"  How  did  you  begin  ?  "  now  asked  Bry,  a  little 
curiously.  ,;.•    a^;. 

"With  a  nice  place,  and  good  fixin's,  and  no 
work.  You  see,  if  I'd  put  her  right  to't  from  thy 
fust  she'd  'a'  made  her  mind  up,  likely,  and  stood 
it.  But  I  didn't  know,  and  she  got  chuck  full  of 
notions.  Wimmen  is  mostly  full  of  'em,  and 
they're  bad  for  'em." 


4v-  A  ,i 


,^K1S^    "ivOli 


..  jy.^  . 


'^  I  m  m^ifjfj^  I'rtd^l*! 


UBJtWfc»Ji~M'.J*''"«**>^  "I"'    ^tllll«ll.f'J< 


iAjjC  n   imr  lalH^iUlitft 


.  ! 


4 


146 


OUB  8TBBBT. 


Mr.  Ezekiels  was  not  used  to  so  good  a  listener, 
BO  he  waxed  warm,  and  became  unusually  loqua- 
cious.   Bry  was  thinking.    She  was  losing  fear, 
also,  of  his  wheedling  whims.    So,  as  he  ended, 
she  began:         a  '<:  ,-.;u^-r;  i  ,^  ^^^  '.\    u '-.j  :j^  a.t; *! 
'  "I  think  perhaps  you  began  wrong  with  your- 
self, Mr.  'Zekiels,"  she  said,  bravely.    "  It  is  right 
to  be  good  to  your  wife,  'cause  God  says  so,  and 
it's  wrong  to  drink  bad  things,  that  make  folks 
drunk,  'cause  He  says  so."    (*'  He  says  so  "  was  the 
end  of  the  law  to  Bry.)    "  Don't  you  think  you 
began  wrong  with  yourself  when  you  began  to 
drink?"    ■-...■      .:--  ^    .  ;■:  ^/;.-^--.  -■  -- .-^r'    •■>_ 
r     No,  evidently  he  did  not  think  so.    It  would 
have  taken  one  far  more  eloquent  than  our  little 
Bry  to  convince  Mr.  Ezekiels  that  he  hadn't  done 
the  wisest  thing  of  his  life  when  he  learned  to 
drink.    Th*ere  had  been  a  time  when  he  lamented 
it,  but  that  was  years  ago,  before  he  drowned  his 
conscience.    So  he  shook  his  head,  very  gravely 
but  decidedly  now,  shook  and  shook  it,  as  if,  hav- 
ing set  it  going — like  the  pendulum  of  a  clock  — 
it  was  loathe  to  stop. 


)  BO  good  a  listener, 
6  unusually  loqua- 
16  was  losing  fear, 
,    So,  as  he  ended, 

■:-i  .  -.:  l^i^l  um;  3.;;',; 
I  wrong  with  your- 
avely.  "  It  is  right 
36  God  says  so,  and 
rs,  that  make  folks 
He  says  so  "  was  the 
)on't  you  think  you 
^hen  you  began  to 

■■■■  ,  -•  ■.  •  I  •-  ."''.?.-" 
hink  so.  It  would 
;[uent  than  our  little 
that  he  hadn't  done 
lyhen  he  learned  to 
e  when  he  lamented 
fore  he  drowned  his 
I  head,  very  gravely 

shook  it,  as  if,  hav- 
idulum  of  a  clock  — 


'wfmmi'^'m 


A  FOUND-OUT  AND  ITS  OUTCOME.  147 

Bry  was  by  no  means  disconcerted  at  this.  She 
opened  her  Bible  and  began  to  read  aloud.  It 
was  vears  since  the  poor  drunkard  had  heard  the 
Bible  read,  and  now  he  did  not  take  in  its  sense, 
but  he  kept  his  head  going,  as  a  perpetual  nega- 
tive, quite  sure  she  was  still  trying  to  convince 
him  of  his  error.  Presently,  however,  the  head 
stopped.  It  made  two  or  three  sudden  jerks  in- 
stead, a  little  bob,  a  great  bob,  a  mighty  plunge, 
then  suddenly  settled  back  to  the  chair,  while  a 
tremendous  snore  startled  the  reader.  Mr.  Zeke 
had  gone  to  sleep.        v  -  -       v^   -^'-^rs-'  ?     ;;  - 

We  must  adjnit  that  our  little  friend  was  sorely 
disturbed.  What  if  some  one  should  call  whUe 
he  was  msking  such  a  noise  I  What  would  Dick 
say  if  he  found  him  there?  But  her  fears  were 
groundless.  Mr.  Ezekiels  slept,  evidently,  with 
one  ear  open  for  any  indications  of  a  coming  slip- 
per. When,  in  the  course  of  an  hour,  Mrs.  Eze- 
kiels, coming  into  the  entry,  issued  a  few  com- 
mands to  her  small  fry,  preparatory  to  descending 
the  stairs,  the  sleeper  suddenly  aroused  himself, 


"CTMiaggjd 


WWiHHgiWlW 


wii»>W:<w<i  ifcuwiiti'iii'i  vii  l1w^  i»ii'rnMa;grfl»rBrTffl^.r.racaar.^..aa 


148 


OUR  STSSBT. 


II! 


i    ! 


rubbed  his  eyes,  looked  about  him  sheepishly,  and 
darted  out  of  the  back  door.  ,; ,  ;  ^ 

Poor  Mrs.  Ezekielsl  Bry's  little  heart  was 
burstuig  with  sympathy  for  her,  and  it  ran  over  in 
a  warm  smile  as  she  entered  the  room.      ,    ^  i^ 

"  It  just  does  a  >)oc.  v  good  to  look  at  you,  you 
poor  little  creetur,"  the  woman  said.  "  I  thought 
mebbe  you'd  need  something  done."  ,; 

"I  just  needed  to  see  you,"  said  Bry,  "and  I 
wish  you'd  let  me  kiss  you.  I'm  so  sorry  you're 
no*^  happy,"  patting  the  face  presented  to  her, 
"and  I  wish  I   could  find  you  some  med'ciue." 

"You're  med'cine  yourself,"  sobbed  the  woman, 
overcome  by  this  show  of  sympathy.  "  I'm  noth- 
ing but  a  hateful  old  thing  1  Nobody  loves  me  — • 
not  even  the  children ;  and  I  don't  see  why  you 

carel" 

"  Jesus  loves  you  dearly."  There  was  no  man- 
ner of  doubt  in  Bryony's  voice.  '^  He  wants  to 
make  you  happy,  and  that's  one  reason  I  do.  His 
friends  are  all  mine.    I  love  everybody  He  does." 

Every  word  of  the  child's  made  the  woman's 
tears  flow  mo  e  freely. 


lHUmidm  'Aiti^wi.'  ^i«'*tf'" 


A  FOr  ,D-OUT  AND  ITS  OUTCOME. 


149 


m  sheepishly,  and 

little  heart  was 
and  it  ran  over  in 
the  room.  ^  ^^, 
)  look  at  you,  you 
said.    "  I  thought 

lone."  ;,,.  ,;,_;  ■      ^ 

said  Bry,  "and  I 
m  so  sorry  you're 
presented  to  her, 
I  some  med'eiue." 
sobbed  the  woman, 
athy.  "  I'm  noth- 
pbody  loves  me  — 
loa't  see  why  you 

?here  was  no  man- 
e.  "  ffe  wants  to 
i  reason  I  do.  His 
erybody  He  does." 
oaade  the  woman's 


♦♦I  pt  so  tired,  and  then  I  git  cross ;  and  I  say 
things  Ha  can't  like,  and  I  forglt  He  lives  or 
cares,"  she  said. 

Bry's  Book  was  open.  "  I've  got  it  I "  she  cried, 
joyfully,  "  I've  got  your  med'cine  1 "  And  she 
read:  "*Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.'" 

She  read  more  than  this,  much  mor>3 ;  but,  long 
after  Mrs.  Ezekiels  had  gone  up-stairs,  those  magic 
words  rang  in  her  ears.  They  made  her  voice 
softer,  her  words  fewer,  her  husband's  greeting 
less  severe.        "  ' 

" '  Rest  I '  "  she  sighed  that  night.  *•  'Reet  I  * 
ITien  there  is  rest  in  Him ;  she  said  so." 


,  ::  '.<-',»■ 


Jii*.; 


■^M: 


,    J        -      '■   . 


':i\.:i,    v*-ii;    :-" 


ajrltfflV^'^"''*"^'^'**^''^'^''''^'^^^^^ 


iLM* 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MB.  JENKINS  IS  CHARITABLH. 


i  1- 


W INTER  did  not  depart  ere  Bryony's  heart 
was  smitten  again.  Dick  broke  his  word 
—  the  frail  word  of  a  man  unaided  by  higher 
power— he  came  home  to  her  drunk  1  Yes, 
drunk  1  she  knew  the  truth  now.  How  hard  she 
tried  to  call  it  sick,  as  heretofore.  Alas !  the  vail 
was  riven— the  blov  fell  on  the  quivering  child- 
heart  without  one  intervening  film.  Her  anguish-, 
through  that  bitter  night,  God  alone  could  fathom. 
She  wept  above  him  in  her  pain  at  first  —  tears 
are  so  natural  to  youth ;  but  he  swore  at  her  out 
of  his  dninkenness,  and  the  tears  froze  in  her  eyes. 
The  morning  lighb  found  them  undimmed  with 
150 


mm^m^mmmm 


MB.  JBNKINS  18  OHABITABIJB. 


161 


IITABLB.  i , 

re  Bryony's  heart 
sk  broke  his  word 
maided  by  higher 
ler  drunk  1  Yes, 
ir.  How  hard  she 
e.  Alas  I  the  vail 
e  quivering  child- 
im.  Her  anguish; 
lone  could  fathom, 
ain  at  first  —  tears 
swore  at  her  out 
rs  froze  in  her  eyes, 
n  undimmed  with 


aught  but  hopeless  horror ;  she  almost  forgot  her 
Bible.  It  was  only  when  he  had  gone  out  again, 
rushing  out  from  her  face  as  if  it  maddened  him, 
that  she  remembered  her  medicine.  Then  she 
opened  it. 

"All  things  work  together  for  good  to  them 
that  love  God."  Her  eyes  dilated  with  surprise. 
She  shut  the  book  and  folded  her  hands  above  it. 
How  could  this  work  out  good? 

Little  Bry  was  not  the  first  who  has  tried  to 
search  out  Almightiuess.  It  was  not  strange  that 
it  led  her  on  a  strange  errand.  Perhaps  Mr.  Jen- 
kins would  stop  selling  liquor  if  he  knew  it  made 
men  sick ;  perhaps  it  did  not  make  everyone  sick 
as  it  did  Dick ;  if  he  stopped  that  would  be  work- 
ing good.  So  her  decision  was  taken  to  visit  Mr. 
Jenkins'  saloon. 

Bry  might  have  found  some  difficulty  in  carry- 
ing out  her  resolution,  had  not  Ike  happened  in 
the  city  that  morning.  June  had  sent  him  in  with 
a  load  of  wood  for  his  grandmother,  and  he  was  to 
stay  all  day  and  saw  and  pile  it.  ^ 


^lla  >»■■■;  iii««l(*'«'»^''^''' ■'''•''' *'*'''''''■• 


162 


OUB  STliEET. 


IIo  liHtened  to  Bryony's  Btory  with  unlcnt  Hym- 
pathy  ami  iutorcHt,  and  though  ho  hnil  littlo  hope 
of  the  Hucce««  of  her  errand,  he  readily  promJHod 
to  take  her  to  Mr.  Jenkins'  naloon  as  soon  au  the 
evening  Hhudea  Hhould  fail. 

A  Htrange-looking  little  object  it  was  that  Iko 
almost  curried  along.  Bry  had  not  been  out  bince 
her  mother's  death,  and  had  no  fit  apparel.  Sho 
found  an  old  gray  shawl  of  her  mother's,  however, 
and  a  quilted  hood,  much  too  large,  under  which 
her  face  looked  very  small  and  witch-like.  But 
neitlier  Bry  nor  her  escort  were  particular  about 
her  appearance. 

Ike  hesitated  at  the  door  of  the  saloon. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  go  in?  Do  you  want  me, 
Bry  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I  said  once  I'd  never  enter 
it;  but  this  time  I  can  if  you  wish."     .  ^         •    , 

"No,  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't,"  replied  the 
child.  "  Stand  where  I  can  call  you  easy  when  I 
want  to  go." 

So  Ike  helped  her  into  the  brilliant  saloon,  and 
shut  the  door.  , 


\,  >**.''•. 


MB.  JEMKJNB  IB  OHABITABLE. 


158 


It  looked  like  a  very  magnificent  place  to  little 
Dry.  She  glanced  from  the  cut-gloMS  decantons 
with  their  uhining  liquids,  to  the  spruco-lookiug 
young  man  who  had  made  his  appearance  as  the 
door  closed,  with  some  bewilderment.  Surely, 
this  could  not  be  the  place  where  Dick  got  sick  I 
—  but  Ike  had  said  so,  truthful  Ike. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Jenkins,  sir?"  she  asked,  In 
answer  to  the  demand  of  what  she  wanted. 

"No,  I  am  not,"  was  the  rather  gruff  reply. 

He's  engaged." 

"  Then  I  will  wait.  I  must  see  him,"  sighed 
Bry,  a  little  wearily,  leaning  on  her  crutches. 

The  clerk  did  not  offer  her  a  chair,  for  he  hoped 
she  would  go  soon.  In  a  few  minutes,  seeing  no 
evidences  of  departure,  he  raised  his  voice  and 
called  out: 

"Mr.  Jenkins  I  you're  wanted,  sir." 

At  this  a  pleasant-looking,  portly  gentleman 
appeared  at  the  door  of  a  small  room  adjoining 
the  shop.  He  was  so  well-dressed,  and  good-look- 
ing, that  our  little  friend  was  quite  sure  now  that 
he  did  not  know  rum  made  men  sick. 


mUm. 


,^-_^ 


J,;,,, 


iil  I 


154 


OXTB  BTBBKT. 


"  What's  wanting,  Sanda  ?  Ah,  a  chUd  1  Well, 
my  dear,  can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  a  very 
sweet,  insJjanating  voice.     Bry's  courage  rose. 

*'  Yes,  sir.  If  you'll  please  not  sell  any  more 
drink  to  Dick." 

•'Dick?     Ah,  well  now,  who's  Dick?" 

"Please,  sir,  he's  my  Daily  Bread." 

"Your  'Daily  Bread'?"  Mr.  Jenkins'  voice 
was  full  of  amusement,  and  he  turned  and  winked 
at  a  few  loafers  who  had  followed  him.  from  the* 
back  room, 

"Here's  fun  for  you,  boya.  Well,"  turning  to 
Bry,  "  well,  little  girl,  what's  the  matter  with  the 
bread  ?    Sour,  or  stale,  hey  ?    Don't  it  suit  you  ?  " 

"O,  yes,  sir;  when  he  don't  spend  it  for— for 
drink."  .    ■  v--^....:  ,>   .--...;.    ■ 

Mr.  Jenkins  did  not  vrinoe.  He  only  said,  in  a- 
joUy  way: 

"Not  enough  of  it?  That's  the  trouble  1 
Well'" — assuming  a  grave  manner  —  "I  never 
encourage  any  man  in  spending  for  liquor  that 
which  is  needed  at  home.    Come,  boys,  out  with 


,achadl  Well, 
r  you?"  a  very 

courage  rose. 
>t  sell  any  more 

'8  Dick?" 

Jread." 

.  Jenkins'  voico 

rned  and  winked 

d  him.  from  the* 

rell,"  turning  to 
matter  with  the 
m't  it  suit  you?" 
lend  it  for — for 

[e  only  said,  in  a 

)'b  the  trouble  I 
iner  —  "I  never 
5  for  liquor  that 
1,  boys,  out  with 


MB.  JENKINB  IS  GHAKITABLE. 


165 


your  purses.  Sands,  hand  me  a  couple  of  dollars 
from  the  drawer.  We'll  take  a  subscription  for 
this  little  one." 

In  less  time  than  it  has  taken  me  to  write  this, 
Mr.  Jenkins  had  gathered  quite  a  little  sum,  and 
offered  it  to  the  unsuspecting  child.  But  Bryony 
shrank  back. 

"O,  no,  sir  I  I  don't  want  money,  indeed  I 
don't  1  I  couldn't  take  it,  please.  I  only  don't 
want  you  to  sell  Dick  any  more  drink." 

In  vain  Mr.  Jenkins  urged.  Bry  was  fijm,  and 
of  course  the  men  refused  to  take  back  their  share 
of  the  money,  so  it  was  put  in  the  till,  to  be  drank 
up  afterwards,  and  Mr.  Jenkfus  turned  to  the 
child.  i  '■      ;  ;  -  ^ 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  I  cannot  do  anything  for 
you,  after  all,"  he  said. 

"  O,  yes  sir,  please.  You  can  keep  Dick  from 
driix^ng.  It  makes  him  sick,  and  so  it  does  Mr. 
'Zekiels.  I  s'posed  you  didn't  know  it,  sir,  or  you 
wouldn't  let  him  have  it.  P'r'aps  it  don't  make 
'em  all  sick."         -      -    •      - 


•  •-««»«S»vMW»iM«l>*l««»«««>>~***-'' 


156 


OUB  STBEBT. 


♦'  No,  only  the  lack  of  it.    How's  that  ?  "  wink- 
ing at  his  companions.    Mr.  Jenkins  was  evidently 
getting  funny.    "Now  here  are  fellows,"  waving 
his  hand  towards  the  group,  "  who  are  only  sick 
when  they  can't  get  it."    And  Bry,  looking  about 
timidly,  saw  an  array  of  bloated  faces  and  grin- 
ning mouths  that  almost  frightened    her;    and 
behind— yes,  surely,  at  the  door  of  the  inner 
room,  a  face  she  knew.    Edward  Parker's  I    The 
face  was  withdrawn  hastily  —  she  wasn't  quite 
sure ;  but  a  great  surge  of  pain  swept  over  her 
heart,  and  she  half  sobbed  out :  "  Little  Stevie  I " 
Mr.  Jenkins  proceeded.    "  Now,  my  dear,  if  it 
makes  Dick  sick^  he  ought  not  to  buy  liquor.    I'm 
not  answerable  for  that,  and,  as  I  don't  know 
Dick  "  —  another  knowing  wink  —  "  why,  I'm  not 
♦  to  blame,  am  I  ? "  *  ' 

"Please,  sir,  Grod  says,  'Woe  unto  him  that 
^veth  his  neighbor  drink,  that  putteth  thy  bottle 
to  him,  and  maketh  him  drunken,  also.'"      ' 

♦*  Yes,  my  dear ;  but  I  don't  put  the  bottle  to 
their  mouths.    I  let  them  wait  on  themselves." 


,i^-S-".^Cff;--^(..-.V!--^---*^-^'*  ■■   '♦^idw 


iiii 


MB.  JSKKIKS  18  OHABITABIiE. 


157 


that?"  wink- 
was  evidently 
lows,"  waving 
are  only  sick 
looking  about 
*ces  and  grin- 
led   her ;   and 
of  the  inner 
arker's  I    The 
i  wasn't  quite 
wept  over  her 
.ittle  Steviel" 
,  my  dear,  if  it 
ay  liquor.    I'm 
I  don't  know 
"  why,  I'm  not 

unto  him  that 
iteth  thy  bottle 
a,  also.' " 
it  the  bottle  to 
m  themselves." 


Mr.  Jenkins  was  getting  funny  again ;  veiy  fimny, 
bis  comrades  evidently  thought. 

"But,  sir,"  continued  the  brave  little  advocate, 
"  what  makes  ec!ne  folks  so  dreadful  sick  can't  be 
good  for  anybody." 

This  certainly  looked  convincing,  but  Mr.  Jen- 
kins was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

♦'  Might  as  well  argue  that  oil  isn't  good  for  a 
German  because  I  can't  eat  it  on  my  potatoes. 
No,  no,  little  one,  you're  not  right.  But  I'm  sorry 
for  you,  and  I'll  see  that  Dick  don't  deprive  you 
of  your  daily  bread  again.  Good  evening ; "  and 
Bry,  knowing  not  what  else  to  do,  went  out. 

She  said  not  a  word  to  Ike,  and  he  asked  no 
questions,  feeling  sure  that  she  was  troubled 
sorely.  Safely  at  home  again,  seated  in  her  chair, 
wraps  laid  aside,  she  breathed  freely  once  more, 
an^,  as  Ike,  having  replenished  the  fire,  took  a 
seat  beside  her,  she  said  solemnly — decidedly; 
"Ike,  if  he  sells  Dick  any  more  drink,  I  shall  have 
to  thut  up  hi$  ihop  —  and  I  will !" 
"A  strange  little  body  —  a  very  strange  little 


,3!a---^iiU-i£^i(.  ^■^'■■^•-  •• 


iMWiMiilMI 


168 


OXJB  BTSBET. 


bodyl"  Jenkins  said,  rubbing  his  hands  together, 
as  the  child  veent  out.  "  But  she  must  not  suffer. 
I  don't  approve  of  this  abuse  of  women  and  chi'^ 
dren.  I  must  send  my  wife  over  to  see  that  she 
doesn't  want  anything." 

Mr.  Jenkins'  charitableness  was  applauded  on 
the  spot ;  it  was  spoken  of  warmly  elsewhere,  and 
reaching  Gregory  Hudworth's  ears,  was  repeated 
to  his  mother.  ■■■:■  ■  .■  ■?>■■  '■•  -ii'-. r>» ^- '^'^■■'  ■sc.v>*>:;^xAf  ;»■ 
The  good  woman  scouted  the  idea  of  his  charity, 
and  thought  he  might  well  feed  those  he  robbed ; 
nevertheless,  she  laid  the  item  away  in  her  heart, 
and  the  next  time  the  temperance  organization  to 
which  she  belonged  needed  funds,  she  suggested 
that  Mr.  Jenkins  was  said  to  be  liberal. ♦    ciiii 

The  result  was  that  Mrs.  Tibbs,  treasurer  of 
the  society,  called  on  the  aforesaid  gentleman, 
and  had  an  extra  ten  dollars  in  her  purse  when 
she  left.       ..  •  -^fc'         ;,.  ;.*j'  ;:■.-»>--::'*■  • 

"  He  said  there  was  no  man  in  the  city  more 
desirous  of  putting  down  these  low  groggeries, 
and  stopping  the  sale  of  cheap,  poisonous  liquors 


.ii.»    -j-fti.ii*'U» ••-'*-    ■ 


.  ^wtosi*:^-'it»l>i*ii^i*«^^ 


^i^gMim 


MK.  JENKIK8  IS  CHABITABLB. 


159 


nds  together, 
uBt  not  Bu£Per. 
nen  and  chil- 
3  see  that  she 

applauded  on 

jlsewhere,  and 

was  repeated 

b  of  his  charity, 
)se  he  robbed ; 
J  in  her  heart, 
organization  to 
she  suggested 
iberal.  ^-aS. 
J,  treasurer  of 
lid  gentleman, 
,er  purse  when 

I  the  city  more 
ow  groggeries, 
Isonous  liquors 


than  he ! "  she  reported  to  Widow  Graf  ham,  af- 

terwaiv^is. 

"Old  hypocrite  1"  was  the  reply.    "But  I'm 

glad  we've  got  so  much  out  of  him." 

Dick  felt  hopelessly  disgraced  on  hearing  of  the 
step  his  sibter  had  taken,  and  made  up  his  mind 
never  to  enter  the  saloon  again.  A  poor  making- 
up,  however,  it  proved.  Mr.  Jenkins  had  no  idea 
of  losing  his  custom,  and  was  unusually  kind,  call- 
ing him  in  as  he  went  by  one  day.  "  It  was  only 
a  child's  whim,"  he  said.  "A  nice  little  girl, very 
nice."  So,  before  the  close  of  a  week,  Bry  had 
another  night  of  misery.  Then  the  cry  went  up, 
from  pale,  firm  lips :  "  O,  God,  shut  up  Mr.  Jen- 
kins' shop,  for  Jesus'  sake."        -.  ,    .   . 

But  Mr.  Jenkins  did  not  forget  his  intention  to 
send  his  wife  to  Dick  Perkins'  home,  and  one 

.  morning  a  tall,  stout  lady,  in  an  elegant  morning- 
dress,  a  delicate  nubia  covering  her  dark  braids, 

1  and  a  rich  shawl  thrown  over  her  shoulders,  made 
her  way,  basket  in  hand,  to  Bry's  humble  apart- 

-  inent.     u^"    '•-■-■.  .-■."■•-•■-       -•''■•'    ■■■'■-  ;<■■■-.        "■-" 


■iinMBMWWlMillWIftlil^ 


iiWBPfWaiiwi 


160 


,s.: 


OUB  BTBEET; 


.nil 


,  Thei-e  was  something  bright  and  pleasant  about 
the  woman's  face,  which  pleased  Bryony  at  once. 
Tlie  stranger  asked  a  few  questions  about  the 
child's  health,  then  into  her  circumstances.  But 
Bryony  was  little  used  to  speak  of  her  poverty, 
and  did  not  admit  that  her  cupboard  was  empty. 
Dick  had  been  very  wild,  lately,  and  they  were 
poorly  fed,  yet  but  few  knew  it  from  Bry.  am 
Presently  the  stranger  revealed  her  name  and 
errand.  "Mr.  Jenkins  does  not  wish  anyone  to 
suffer.    I  have  brought  you  a  nice  breakfast." 

She  lifted  the  napkin.    A  plate  of  told  chicken, 
a  nice  white  loaf,  a  print  of  gold^r  butter,  some 
cookies,  a  pie.    Bry  shut  her  eyea  on  the  tempt- 
ing vision,  as  she  said,  firmly:       ;  ,  ••  iji";rl :'3M*,5 
"I  can't  take  it  I    I  can't I'^r^^^i^  t      .?      ' 
"Why,  you  foolish  child,  of  course  you  can," 
said  the  lady,  not  understanding.     "  I  am  not  rob- 
bing myself —  we  have  plenty.    You  will  do  me  a 
real  favor  by  receiving  this." 
But  still  Bry  shook  her  head. 
"You  are  good,  real  good,  but  I  can't  take  it.; 
Sick  folks'  money  bought  it  I" 


^:M^dii^£yw^ 


easant  about 
ony  at  once. 
IS  about  the 
tances.  But 
her  poverty, 

was  empty, 
d  they  were 
rom  Bry.  « 
er  name  and 
sh  anyone  to 

breakfast."  t; 
cold  chicken, 

butter,  some 
tn  the  tempt- 


S  7         ^-  '     .' 


pse  you  can, 
I  am  not  rob- 
i  will  do  me  a 

V*  Ui/'iil-'ti,     :  ■-.■-■■-. 
■ft,    ;'     .:'•<•;#'-?     H-s, 

can't  take  it. 


?JW,Wif  ^V^'^'i"*  i-^i'!*"'  '«»»^-yg^T^  ) 


HB.  JENKnrS  IB  OHABITABLB. 


m 


161 


The  lady's  color  rose  slightly  at  this,  yet  she 
answered,  pleasantly :  ^.^ »  «  , 
"Doctors  make  their  money  on  sick  folks.** 
"Yes,  makin'  'em  well,  or  tryin'  too.  That's 
lovely  I  it's  most  like  God.  But  —  but^ — when 
it's  jnakin'  'em  sick,  you  know,  it's  dreadful ! " 
She  did  not  add  "It's  'most  like  the  devil  I"  but 
she  thought  it  and  shuddered.  "  I  couldn't  keep 
such  money,"  she  went  on,  warmly  —  her  little 
heart  had  been  stung  by  this  foe  —  "I  couldn't 
eat  the  bread  it  bought  I  It's  like  Judas'  silver — 
the  price  of  blood.  And  he  knows  it  makes  'em 
sick  notr  —  I  told  him.  If  he  don't  stop  selling 
it,  God  mil  atop  him,  and  shut  up  his  shop.  I've 
.  asked  him  to,  in  Jesus'  name,  and  He  always  says 
'Yes.'  I  thanks, you  just  the  same.  You  can't 
help  his  selling  that,  but  I'm  $o  sorry  for  you, 
'cause  you're  his  wife.  It  must  be  dreadful  to 
know  he  makeet  'em  sick,  and  you  can't  help  it. 
But  I  couldn't  eat  the  good  things  I  they'd  choke 
me  when  I  thought  how  Dick  only  gets  —  gets 
sick-makers,  there  I"  '^j  .■■' '  .     -^ 


162 


•»•;?.»■/:••    OUR  STKEBT.    ''f-  -i^W 


= 


-  Mrs.  Jenkins'  anger  was  really  roused  at  this. 
'•"You  ungrateful  little  creature  f"  she  cried 
indignantly ;  "  and  so  impud  ^nt,  for  sn-L  a  ihilJ  1 
ndeed,  '  will  tak  j  it  homel  it's  all  too  good  for 
sach  as  you!  "  '  And  so  saying  she  left  the  room, 
iud  Bry  burst  into  tears.     >^f'    ;i;inJ'i.t  feu  '  ^     : 

Her  grief  was  violent,  but  not  long-lived,  for 
presently  she  put  up  one  thin  hand  and  stroked 
her  own  cheek,  soothingly.     ^   ''  ^    ;-Mi^^  ^  .«^ 

«'  Don't  cry,  little  Bry,"  she  said,  coaxingly. 
"  You  didn't  mean  to  do  wrong,  and  God  'looketh 
on  the  heart' ;  the  med'cine  said  so  this  morning. 
It's  all  right  with  Him,  and  He  can  make  it  all 
right  with  everyone  else."  ^  ^    " 

Just  then  Widow  Grafhara  peeped  into  the 

room.  ,    ' 

"What  I  crying?"  she  said,  advancing.  "See  ! 
1  have  brought  you  a  bit  of  my  breakfast,"  taking 
from  under  her  apron  a  plate  with  a  nice  slice  of 
beefsteak,  a  round  of  toast,  aud  »  spoonful  of 
strawberry  preserves. 

Bry's  eyes  sparkled  through  tears.  ,.,   .-,     ■.,:-:, 


% 


1 


p^j^i^wCiLkV'-itfi  W=i^  -i- 


M        ■ 

ised  at  this. 
'  8he  cried 
ii"'-  u  5hilu  1 
00  good  for 
:t  the  room, 

ag-lived,  for 
and  stroked 

,  coazingly. 

Jod  'looketh 

his  morning. 

make  it  all 

)ed  into  the 


cing. 


^See! 


tfast,"  taking 

nice  slice  of 

i  spoonful  of 


C8. 


1 


HB.  JKlfKENii  IS  CHARITABLE. 


108 


"I  knew  He'd  sen  it!"  she  ened.  "He  al- 
ways does,  but  you  spo  I  sent  tho  first  away,"  and 
th"  ^  out  came  the  whole  etory,.  ;.  -      iw 

Widow  Grafham  was  divided  between  anger 
at  Bryony,  and  indignation  at  Jenkins.   ,., 

"You  might  have  kept  it  —  you  needed  it  I 
He  owes  you  much  more  —  the  robber!  Insult- 
ing things!  I  wouldn't  have  kept  it  I  'Twoul 
have  choked  you,  I  expect  I  I'd  have  thrown  '■'■ 
in  her  face.  There !  don't  fret.  God'll  take  v  r< 
of  you.  This  is  pudding  day,  you  knov.* 
And  the  widow  kissed  the  child,  and  L  net 
away  to  the  shopil  hr-x.  -^i  "     ;'•  w-  Vir   . 


.-^'^T 


t.  ■) 


r.fiif- 


'Vt  '  rt 


■  i> 


.^r  )itg'>U    ''..P.^  i'ile  '  ^)^  T' -       ''-'■'  ""*  ' 


t'lRWttWI'SWI^ft™ 


.V  /..>'7 


T,    :•.:'•;■?>:' 


CHAPTER  X.  •  ; 

MI88  JUNIPER  OUT  ON  DUTY. 

MISS  JUNIPER  HARGREAVE  was  actu- 
ated continually  by  a  great  desire  to  do  her 
duty.  Her  religion  was  much  more  one  of  obedi- 
ence than  of  love.  Not  that  they  are  incompati- 
ble, but  that  we  sometimes  find  the  one  or  the 
other  predominating.  It  takes  years  of  experience 
to  wed  them,  in  some  instances,  while  in  others, 
as  in  little  Bry  Perkins,  they  spring  up  side  by 
side.  l)ut  it  was  in  the  direction  of  little  Bry 
that  Miss  June's  call  to  duty  lay  at  present. 

She  had  heard  of  her  fronr  Ike,  and  had  formed 
an  opinion  of  her ;  yet  it  must  be  confessed  not  a 
very  accurate  one.    She  knew  she  was  a  cripple, 
164 


teese 


:::£:f&issisisssxx 


T 


MISS  .IXJNIPBB  OUT  ON  DUTY. 


166 


■;nw 


■  J. 


Y. 


I  was  aotu- 
ire  to  do  her 
ine  of  obedi- 
B  incompati* 
I  one  or  the 
if  experience 
ie  in  others, 
;  up  side  by 
3f  little  Bry 
it  present. 
.  had  formed 
tfessed  not  a 
as  a  cripple, 


and  a  Rufferer.  But  she  did  not  know  that  she 
was  a  Christian,  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the 
word,  and  daily  underwent  a  discipline  of  pain  and 
sorrow  unknown  to  many  old  disciples. 

Ike  had  never  spoken  of  Dick's  infirmity,  his 
manhood  forbade  this.    So   while  his  ^ords  of 
praise  and  love  in  regard  to  his  little  friend  won 
Miss  June's  interest  in  her,  she  had  a  very  imper- 
fect conception  of  the  child. 
,!  June  had  felt,  for  a  long  time,  that  she  ought  to 
visit  Bry.    That  perhaps  she  could  teach  her,  or 
help  her  to  Christ ;  find  out  some  of  her  daily 
needs  and  supply  them,  for  June  was  true  at 
heart,  inm  3,t'4f,  ii.uf  «iMv;j&i;;   ^   y:*/  ^*«"<'   -uri  ,-■>>■>> 
t    She  had  early  done  her  duty  by  Ike,  asking  him 
many  plain  questions,  which  had  probed  his  heart, 
unveiling  it  to  himself;  making  him  conscious  of 
a  lack  there,  giving  him  an  estimate  of  his  need  of 
Christ,  such  as  he  had  not  known  before.     Ike 
was  a  good  boy,  well  brought  up,  naturally  con- 
scientious; but  he  was  not  a  Christian.  :.:5s*  ^-.i* 
,-.  "You  must  give  yourself  to  Jesus,"  said  June 


mmmm 


mmmmmi 


169 


f'f '" 


OITB  STBXBT. 


to  him  one  evening,  as  they  talked  together. 
"That's  what  Chriatian  means  —  belonging  to 
Christ.  Looking  outside,  I  fear  I  do  not  appear 
much  better  to  others  than  I  used  to ;  but  I  be- 
long to  a  different  party.  I  serve  another  Master. 
I  am  changed  inside.  Don't  ever  pattern  by  me, 
Ike,  that  isn't  what  I  moan  at  all.  Jesus  is  the 
only  pattern  safe  to  follow,  and  you  are  naturally 
better  than  I.  You  have  always  been  good  and 
straight  in  your  conduct,  but  I  am  irregular  —  was 
born  so  ;  I  wish  I  wasn't "  —  with  a  little  sigh  — 
"but  JcMus  knows,  and  he  makes  a  difference." 

Ike  did  not  readily  forget  June's  teachings.  He 
followed  her  advice,  too,  and  made  a  surrender  of 
self.  He  was  conscious  of  an  inward  change,  not 
violent,  but  deep.  His  Bible  and  its  Jesus  becat^d 
dearer,  and,  yes  —  he  was  conscious,  too,  that  his 
love  for  his  young  mistress  grew  daily  stronger. 

She  not  as  good  as  him  I  She  irregular  I  Irreg- 
ularity was  very  beautiful,  then.  Who  would  be 
regular?  .    ... 

June  helped  Ike,  and  knew  it.    He  helped  her 


T 


1ril|--'  -    II     -^    -^' -        "■'■*'-'.'■'■''     ■     H,,....,Tr...i. 


r 


together, 
onging  to 
not  appear 

but  I  be- 
ler  Master, 
jrn  by  me, 
08U8  is  tho 
9  naturally 
1  good  and 
ular  —  was 
ttle  8igh  — 
difFereace.'* 
hings.  He 
urrender  of 
change,  not 
«us  becatad 
K>,  that  his 
ly  stronger, 
ar  1  Irreg- 
)  would  be 

helped  her 


XIBS  JUNIPBB  OUT  ON  DUTY. 


167 


daily,  without  the  knowledge    of   either.     His 
conscientiousness  in  all  things,  his  tenderness  to 
Mrs.  Hargreave,  fretful  invalid    that  she    was, 
preached  sermons  continually  to  the  erratic  miss, 
sermons  by  which  she  profited,  though  uncon- 
sciously.     '•    '   -       '  -      • 
*=   It  was  growing  late  in  the  season,  but  sleighing 
was  still  good,  and  June  decided,  one  sunny  morn- 
ing, that  this  was  the  day  for  her  long-contem- 
plated visit  to  Bryony.   ■ 

-     Betty  was  away  — had  been  gone  a  week,  to 
visit  her  mother,  who  was  ill;  but  Mrs.  Maria 
was  feeling  unusually  well  that  day,  and  June  got 
ready  for  departure.        '""    '"  " 
'    "  There's  nothing  to  be  done,  Ike,  but  just  a 
little  hot  apple-sauce  for  father ;  he  can't  do  with- 
out that.    You  can  make  that,  after  seeing  me  do 
it  so  often.    One  cup  of  sugar,  about  two  of  hot 
water,  brought  to  a  boU;  then  drop  in  your  quar- 
tered apples,  and  be  sure  not  to  let  them  mash." 
Yes,  Ike  could  remember,  and  could  do  all  that ; 
but  Miss  Rose  was  very  indignant. 


!l 


1 

'*"■■.■ 

.   ■  ■ 

.  k  -  ' 

v 

-  i-J-  ■ 

"-     '■■/:*    .       '  ■■     -•    '  .^  ■ 

" 

\    -  - 

:     ■.   N.     -     - 

•nij^MWipPtf) 


168 


OUB  8TBBJET. 


**  I  am  a  girl,"  she  cried,  "  and  know  more  than 
any  boy  about  it.  To  think  of  leaving  Ike  Hob- 
son  to  make  apple  sauce,  as  if  I  was  an  idiot  I  I 
shall  make  it  myself."       .     -,     s   !     ^  -   "< 

In  vain  Jun  protested,  in  vain  Rose  plead. 
Ike  followed  the  young  lady  from  the  room.  I 
will  superintend  it  faithfully.  Miss  June,  if  you'll 
please  let  her  try,"  he  said,  so  Rose  received  the 
desired  permission.       ,-  ,        .'  ■  .   .  " 

Great  was  Bry's  surprise  when  the  beautiful 
sleigh  stopped  at  her  door.  She  watched  the  tiny 
lady  as  she  fastened  and  blanketed  her. horse. 
Then  there  was  a  light  rap,  the  opening  of  her 
door,  and  June,  radiantly  lovely,  with  her  bloom- 
ing cheeks  and  pretty  robes,  stood  before  the 
child.  ,.,        „  K...,.  .  ^r      .  .  ,. :   ,-. 

All  the  way  there  June  had  been  preparing  her- 
self for  her  talk.  She  had  quite  made  out  a  plan 
as  to  how  she  should  begin,  and  how  she  should 
behave.  So  it  was  with  all  the  teach-you-some- 
thing-edness  of  a  young  lady  of  fifteen,  fully  con- 
vinced of  the  mightiness  of  her  undertaking,  that 


■v;jj--!^'w.'»i^ta^;ffi»-»g*iw*".'W»'*»'W^^  ''''"'*'"*''*''*""''*""^'*^''''*''^ 


•!wnm">«ppi8Pf 


M^MMHtftiiii 


more  than 
?  Ike  Hob- 
m  idiot  I    I 

Rose  plead. 

room.       I 

le,  if  you'll 

Bceived  the 

e  beautiful 
led  the  tiny 
her .  horse, 
ling  of  her 
her  bloom- 
before  the 

paring  her- 
out  a  plan 
she  should 
i-you-some- 
,  fully  con- 
ikiug,  that 


■'-/■:;"«'■ 
^1>.:*. 


T 


I 


BOSS  JUNIPKE  OUT  ON  DUTY.  169 

she  took  a  seat,  and  introduced  herself  as  Miss 
Hargreave.    i  •        -;  " ' 

Bry  was  always  pleased  to  see  company,  and 
she  made  Miss  Hargreave  very  welcome,  though 
without  the  slightest  idea  that  she  was  Ike's  Miss 
June.  She  rather  thought  the  young  lady  had 
made  a  mistake  —  that  she  was  looking  for  Mrs. 
Ezekiels;  ladies  came  sometimes  to  hire  her. 
So  to  her  cordial  invitation  to  J'ane  to  take  a  seat 
she  added :  "  Mrs.  'Zekiels  lives  up-stairs.  She  is 
out,  now,  but  you  can  leave  any  order  with  me,  if 
you  please."     >.^'i;.;'^,^■  .-•';■    --  ->-•' -'■   •■ 

"I  did  not  come  to  see  Mrs.  Ezehiels,"  said 
June,  briefly;  "I  came  to  see  you,  if  you  are 
Bryony  Perkins."  •     ;,   - 

*'  And  I  am.  How  good  you  are  I  What  made 
you  come  to  see  me?"       -         -^  ^ 

Bryony's  eyes  were  shining  into  June's.  The 
child  was  evidently  one  of  the  grateful  sort.  June 
liked  that,  c-y:;^-^-  .&^«  *  -!  -'"^''  ^"'  ■'  "" 

"O,  I  thought  perhaps  I  could  do  you  some 
good,  or  teach  you  something."     > 


!T3!B;rtTB»WW»*^'H'ft^*^^>^>''''-"'^^^^^^^ 


^ 


"""••■•"■PiWPPiffpw 


'■i\ 
it 

y 


170 


OUB.  8TKB1ST.    H,  Wif^: 


"How  good  you  are!"  warmly  again.  Bry 
didn't  6eem  to  notice  the  teach-you-something- 
edness  of  the  voice,  .siij;.  :;«i;;i; ?«'-*,  «.!i-*<^-.      )  hn-vjh 

Her  questions  had  somewhat  upset  the  order  of 
Miss  June's  exercises,  however.  But  at  this  junc- 
ture the  young  lady  began  her  regular  cate- 
chizing.       ■     .      ■  .-■-■:■  ft*  .'s.jsjc* 

"Are  you  a  Christian?'*  f^i?  Stj?  i  ayi*  1 
i  "No;   mother   is,  but  I'm  only  one   of  th© 
lambs."        X  ^>';;*';  .-^ru    ■;-,  n?  j,  ■■■  '.ii,  -    '%r.o^vt  .um 
c  "What  lambs?"     f^r^^  :>i  Uyu  )   f  w;^o5:  „rtT 

"  Jesu3'  lambs.  The  ones  he  told  Peter  and 
Mr.  Gardenell,  and  all  the  min'sters  to  take  care 
of,"  replied  Bry,  simply.  :  ^-ts^    ;>  «i5 

"Why,  then,  you're  a  Christian,  of  course,  if 
you  belong  to  Jesus.  When  were  you  con- 
verted?" ■      >    >     5-:     r.,  .:,.;:.  ^    i  ^«.i-,  ;-.;in-?r   t-<ik 

The  child  lifted  a  puzaled  face.  .1  J 

"I  neyrer  was  con  —  converted,  not  that  I 
'member.  P'r'aps  I  was  when  I  was  a  teenty- 
tonty.  Are  j/ou  converted,  Miss  Hargreave?" 
unmistakable  admiration  in  her  voice.       ;i-i'  I" 


fej;si!^jaa 


again.    Bry 
a-something- 


the  order  of 
at  this  juno- 
igular   catd- 

one   of  the 


I  Peter  and 
o  take  care 

•f  course,  if 
J   you    con- 

act  that  I 
18  a  teenty- 
argreava  ?  " 


U' 


■■'v.  r  :"r-'i" 

«'.»-.        '    '■ 

' "  •  -      .    - 

-  'i 

' 

MISS  juirreim  our  ok  duty. 

171 

f 

"  Of  course.    Everybody  is  that  is  a  Christian, 
and  you  must  have  been,  or  how  did  you  find 
Jesus  ?"    Miss  June  had  taken  religion  as  she  had 
the  chicken-pox  and  measles,  in  the  regular  way. 
Had  felt  bad,  had  risen  for  prayers,  felt  better, 
and  was  baptized.    She  could  not  conceive  of  any 
other  way.     -^  ;       -.-■•._,  --      .?,:,   .j;^  --.,,    :^^^.\>s.xy.^ 
«I  didn't  find  him,"  said  Bry,  timidly.    Miss 
June's  manner  was  awe-inspiring.    "He  found 
me,  please.    P'r'aps  it  was  'cause  I  was  lame* 
You  know  I  forgot  to  grow  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  and  cooldn't  go  far  for  him.    So  he  came. 
It  was  real  comfortable  in  him,  wasn't  it,  Miss 
Hargreave  ?  "      -  ■  "■:' u-z  .,,;  iVispa*? 'V^m^  i:v  u i^^:  \ ,;  \i 
Juniper  did  not  answer  this  question.    She  was 
looking  at  Bryony,  in  very  much  the  same  way 
she  would  have  examined  a  new  specimen  in 
botany..    '■',  -.,;^t5*v  ;,,.V' ?^^"KT,!.  v^'^-p  >.:'i.- 

"How  did  he  come?"  she  inquired.     "Did 

you  feel  any  different?"        ;       «    '^        'i-ifioui 

"  It  was  just  after  I  forgot  to  grow,"  said  Bry. 

« I  didn't  feel  comfortable,  and  I  used  to  cry,  so 

he  sent  me  a  letter." 


-%«ii£SiM9^em« 


'iiWiiteW»yi«M'4i)!i(ft))u»>i)iMiMi  iiiJMiiiaim* 


MMfwnvtfU^V 


iMa 


172 


OUB  STREET. 


![ 


ti 


"Who?"  interrupted  June.  ^?^ 

"Jesus."  ■''    '"'"    •-"-■•  -'■■■'         '■':''     -  '■"' 

June  looked  very  incredulous,  but  little  Bry, 

nothing  disconcerted,  continued:     ^""    "^  ''..   ""^ 

"  He  didn't  write  it  himself,  he  got  one  of  his 

min'sters,  Mr.  Gardenell,   to  do  it;  but  he  told 

him  what  to  say,  so  'twas  just  as  good.    And  it 

said  he  wanted  all  the  children  for  his  lambs,  and 

told  about  little  Violet.    You  know  she  loved 

Jesus,  and  he  tent  for  her!"  lowering  her  voice 

as  if  telling  news  too  good  to  be  spoken  aloud ; 

*'and  I  'speot  he'll  send  for  me  some  day,  and 

then  she'll  be  so  glad  to  ane  me!"       '  ;    -  >*  -' 

Bryony  spoke  so  like  one  eager  to  meet  an  old 

friend  that  June  interrupted  again  with: 

"Who?  Violet?  Did  you  know  her?"  ^'^ 
"  O,  yes,  I  always  knew  her,  only  I  didn't  know 
her  name  was  Violet.  T  saw  her  lots  of  times 
before  I  heard  of  her,  and  I  see  her  now  every 
time  I  shut  my  eyes.  She's  so  —  so  beautiful! 
Such  blue  eyes,  and  long,  bright  curls,  like  the 
sunshine ;  and  O,  when  she  smiles,  I  have  to  open 


|»»»»»««a»Mu.JJ»iyM..«wyiiw«;w  1 


iiiymPil 


-ii 


t  little  Bry, 

;ot  one  of  his 
but  he  told 
ood.  And  it 
is  lambs,  and 
w  she  loved 
ng  her  voice 
[)oken  aloud; 
)me  day,  and 

meet  an  old 

with: 

r  her?"  '* 
{  didn't  know 
ots  of  times 
icr  now  every 
30  beautiful  I 
arls,  like  the 

have  to  open 


MISS  JUNIFKB  OUT  ON  DUTY. 


m 


my  eyes  quick,  for  fi^ar  !  wddn't  stay  any  longer, 
even  to  be  Dick's  iied'cine,"  and  Bry  gave  a  sigh 
of  reil  longing  "  But  she's  waiting  for  me,  and 
we'll  be  so  happy  by  and  by.  There'll  be  plenty 
of  time  to  be  comfortable  with  her  after  my  work 
is  done.    Mother  sail  he'd  send  for  me  aa  soon's 

it    was."  ,      .„      ,  .-,      ,.     ,-:.       ,...,-.r        ,.        .,.,     ,     ,.„,:t;:-     .v.'. 

There  was  something  very  suspi^ous  looking  in 

June's  eyes.       .,r    ,^^/     ..--Ky  J'  ,,.ii?;  j-    .,    r^-i 
"Did  you  tell  me  all  the  way  Jesus  found 

you?"  she  asked,  gently.       ,,     ,,    ,  .      ,  . 
"'Most  all.     You  know  if  he  wanted  all  the 

children  he  wanted  me;  and — I — just  let  him 

take  me,"   .  ..^  .^.-nj-H  jciu  i^M-  <■'•■.  '■■.  ^-".;-;  ■;!■',;■•''{ 
"But  didn't  you  pray,  or  feel  sorry  for  your 

gins?"  objected  the  young  lady.    ;y  fv  - 

"  But  he  knew  I  was  wicked  when  he  said  he 

wanted  me,"  replied  Bry.    "  He  wanted  ail  of  me, 

he  said  so ;  and  the  wicked  was  part,  so  I  just  did 

nothing  at  all  but  shut  my  eyes  and  let  him  take 

me.    When  I  opened  my  eyes  mother  asked  n 

what  I  was  doing,  and  I  said,  *  Letting  Jesus  take 


ii^mimiteiiei^ts'f^.^im-'^^immn^'m  ^vmsm^ ' 


mwm 


OUB  STBBBT. 


'■Xl,  fcgiU 


me/  So  she  knelt  rigb^  down  and  asked  him  to 
keep  me  forever,  and  he  has.  Everything  is  com- 
fortable new.  There's  sunshine  inside  all  the 
time." 

Miss  Hargreave  addenly  ended  her  teach-yoU'- 
something-edness,  by  placing  a  hearty,  clinging 
kiss  on  little  Bry's  face.  ^^ 

"  To  think  I  came  here  to  teach  you  I  You're 
j  ust  a  darling,  and  teaching  me  lots  and  lots  of 
things,  just  as  Ike  saidl" 

"Whyl  do  you  know  my  Ikey  boy?"  asked 
the  little  girl  in  astonishment. 

"Of  course  I  dol    He  livos  at  our  house." 

"01"  how  Bry's  eyes  rounded  out.  "  And 
you  are  Miss  June,  that  lives  at  the  farm-house  ! " 
lingering  over  that  last  word  as  if  her  mouth 
dreaded  to  lose  its  flavor.  "■  Of  course  you  are 
Miss  June  Hargreave  I  how  stupid  I  am!  Yes," 
shutting  her  eyes  a  moment,  and  pursing  her 
mouth  in  a  comical  fashion,  "you  look  just  like 
her  after  Ike's  been  here.  Tt's  funny  I  didn't 
know  vou — I  thought  I  should  the  moment  I  saw 


't'jnKHf;. 


^™"'»>.T".^  ■*»■(    ...   r' 


asked  him  to 
)rthiDg  IB  com- 
aside  all  the 

ler  teach-yoa- 
irty,  clinging 

jrou  I  You're 
s  and  lots  of 

boy?"  asked 

our  house." 
out.  "  And 
farm-house  I " 
if  her  mouth 
)urse  you  are 
[  am!  Yes," 
pursing  her 
ook  just  like 
inny  I  didn't 
aoment  I  saw 


':'fi«. 


MISS  JUNIPEB  OUT  ON  DUTY.  176 

youl  but  you  didn't  just  act  like  yourself,  at 
first."      -■-*'■'■  ■"■■'"'"      ■■'     '  '   -  '  '-■'  -     --'- 

June  laughed,  but  it  must  be  confessed  she  was 
a  little  ashamed  that  she  hadn't  acted  herself. 
♦♦You  have  a  brother?"  she  asked,  presently. 

♦♦  O,  yes ;  Dick.    He's  my  '  daily  bread.'  " 

June  looked  up  in  surprise,  "  *  Daily  bread '  ?  " 
she  said,  inquiringly.^    -  v     ».  . 

♦'  Yes.  You  know  I  couldn't  earn  bread,"  re- 
plied  Bry,  simply,  "so  he   eftrns   enough   for 

both." 

«  0 1 "  That  was  all  Juno  said,  but  it  expressed 
volumes.  To  think  of  this  child  re  :  <  g  a 
grown-up  brother  in  the  light  of  dail)  .  adl 
How  prosaic  I  K  there  was  anything  June  did 
covet  it  was  sucJa  a  brother.  A  big  brother.  She 
thought  she  would  have  been  willing  to  work  for 
him,  deny  herself,  do  almost  anything  to  please 
him.  Dick!  that  sounded  wild  and  rugged;  just 
suited  June.    So  she   said,  with  a  quick  Uttle 

breath : 
,♦' I  wish  he  was  my  brother.    Dick's  a  splendid 


■^f. 


name. 


»i 


»iAi««Maiitw»<^j|>M 


»!»W»»Vli."' 


^,«ia«.i  tiji^,.'U'.M--^  Jiuj'''iffl)**»*^ 


1^: 


i 


,'.- 


**■ 


'5  ■ 


,4  ■  -.  ■». 


OUB  8TEBKT.        -.. 

^'Yes,  it  is/'  returned   Bry.      "It's  big  and 
broad  and  funny  and  nice  and"  -hesitating  for  a 
word  that  would  express  it  all  -  "  and  comforta. 
ble,"  with  a  sigh  of  aatisfactioa. 
June  laughed. 
Is  he  anything  like  you?  "  she  queried,  reUsh- 

ing  the  child's  quaintness. 

♦'Dick?"  in  Burpme.  "O,  nol  Why,  he*« 
daily  b-aad,  and  I'm  only  med'cine,  you  know. 
We  eat  broad  ev.ry  day,  but  only  want  med'cme 
once  in  a  while  when  we're  sick.  I  forgot  to 
grow  when  I  was  Utile,  and  have  been  waiting 

ever  since —  .'.•.•;;  ,  •  ' 

"Waiting?"  interrupted  June. 
A  "Yes.  Waiting  fora-a  push  up.  It  hasn't 
come  yet- not  quite -but  it  wUl.  I  haven't 
quite  stood  stUl-r>e  grown  a  little  bit  taller. 
I  asked  Dick  if  I  hadn't  grown,  and  he  said  '  Yes, 
spindling.'  It's  better  to  grow  spindling  than  not 
at  all,  isn't  it.  Miss  June?" 

«I  don't  know.    Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  repliad 
June,  with  Ups  that  quivered  a  little.         ,  - 


'Li 


It's   big   and 

esitating  for  a 
and  comfbrta- 


lueried,  reliah- 

,1  Why,  he'i* 
ae,  you  know, 
want  med'cine 
:.  I  forgot  to 
B  been  waiting 


up.  It  hasn't 
dll.  I  haven't 
little  bit  taller, 
id  he  said  » Yes, 
udling  than  not 


lose  80,"  replied 
little. 


■hna 


MISS  jmnPEB  OUT  ON  DUTY. 


177 


" ' "  •♦  But  Dick  never  forgot  to  grow.  He's  big  and 
broad  and —  comfortable.  I'd  rather  be  bread, 
but  — it's  nice  to  be  something.  You'd  rather 
be  med'cine   than  nothing,  wouldn't  you.  Miss 

June?" 

"I  don't  khovir,*'  seid  June,  who  was  not  partial 
to  medicine.  "  I'm  not  sure,  anyway,  that  I'm  as 
much  as  that." 

"  O,  yes,  you  ^re.  lie  says  so.  He  says  the 
farm-house  couldn't  be  run  without  you."  An- 
other strange  lingering  over  farm-house,  fairyland 
to  little  Bry,  who  had  never  seen  inside  one.  "  I 
'spect  you're  apples  and  pies  and  puddings  —big 
puddings,  you  know,  with  lots  of  raisins  in  'em. 
Ike  says  you're  just  like  a  bird  —  a  wild  bird. 
That's  so  nice  !  I  like  birds.  When  I  sing  some- 
tunes  Dick  calls  me  his  canary.  That's  comfort- 
able—  to  be  two  things,  you  know.  But  a 
wild-bird  I  a  sparrow,  or  a  robin  with  a  red-breast 
— that's  lovely  I 

"  A  canary  is  bef'cr  than  a  robin,"  Bsuid  matter- 
of-fact  Juniper;  "it  sings  sweeter." 


WI»«WlilWWIJajllM».WUMlllJM 


•SSSBSSSSSSKfBSSOB 


'^(miii'''>ii>tfiilff^f'^f'^ 


-78 


OtTB  8TBBBT, 


If 


»  Yes ;  but  —  it's  always  in  a  cage.  It  can't  fly 
off  and  8ing  to  evorybody."  (Was  there  a  touch 
of  pain  in  little  Bry's  voice?  )  "  Robir-  dance  on 
the  trees,  and  build  little  really  truly  nests  for  the 
chUdren  to  peep  into.  O,  it's  nice  to  be  a  robin, 
but,  if  you  can't,  it's  nice  to  be  a  canary.  I'd 
rather  be  a  bird  in  a  cage  than  a  worm  that  could 
crawl  everywhere.    It's  so  nice  to  have  wings,  if 

you  ever  want  to  u»e  'em. 

June  was  being  taught,  surely.    The  afternoon 
wore  away,  pleasantly.    June  told   Jry  of  her 
sunny  bay  window,  with  its  many  plants,  and  Dry 
imparted  to  her  a  secret  in  return.    "  By-and-by, 
when  Ike's  time  comes,  we're  gomg  to  have  a  bay- 
window.     You  see  the  sun    \ways  shines  in  here 
through  that  window  a  little  while,  and  he  thinks 
a  bay  window  would  catch  a  lot  more  of  the  sun's 
rays;  so  it's  settled,  but  I  must  wait.    I'll  have 
plants,  then,  like  yours." 

This  led  them  to  talk  of  Ike. 
"Isn't  he  grand?"  asked  Bryony. 
June  hardly  agreed  to  this.  ' 


rfllMMHlAMi 


It  can't  fly 
lere  a  touch 
iir~  dance  on 
nests  for  the 
I  be  a  robin, 
canary.  I'd 
n  that  could 
iave  wings,  if 

?he  afternoon 
L  Bry  of  her 
lants,  and  Bry 
"  By-and-by, 
to  have  a  bay- 
jhines  in  here 
and  he  thinks 
re  of  the  sun's 
rait.    I'll  have 


ly- 


MISB  JtmiPKB  OUT  OK  DUTY. 


179 


"He's  good,"  she  said,  "but  not  grand.    You 
know  he's  small." 

"  Is  h(  ?  "  This  was  unmistakably  a  revelation  to 
Bry.  "  He  must  be  very  big  inside,  then,  he  has 
such  great  thoughts,  and  he  loves  everybody." 
June  could  not  deny  this,  yet  all  the  way  home 
she  was  absorbed,  not  by  thoughts  of  Ike  Hobson, 
and  how  she  could  build  him  higher,  but  of  that 
wonderful  Dick,  of  whom  she  had  heard. 

Meanwhile,  there  had  been  trouble  at  the  farm- 
house. Ike's  charge  was  very  refractory.  He  had 
to  devise  unheard-of  games  to  keep  her  from 
making  the  apple-sauce  soon  after  June's  de- 
parture ;  and  when  at  last  it  was  time  to  begin, 
she  would  not  allow  the  slightest  interference  or 
help  from  Ike.  "  It  is  my  ownty-donty  sauce,  and 
you  shan't  touch  it,"  she  said. 

By  skillful  manceuvering  he  controlled  the 
arrangements,  however,  saw  the  syrup  prepared, 
and  the  apples  dropped  in.    Then  Mrs.  Hargreave 

called  him.    «;?•>;•,     :?     .  v;^   v 

It  did  seem  to  the  boy  that  the  lady  was  never- 


wji.i      K¥}mmmmmmmimmmmmm 


r--^'i^X^^-M?i-    5^:K-:^V^'^^nv-;,.^.    .!,.U0>'^^.ir-¥^r 


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» » j^aJfcg.jgux-jw:  *_,  J 


180 


017B  STBEET. 


SO  fussy,  as  if  the  work  in  her  room  was  endless ; 
and  when  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  What  is  that 
burning?  I  smell  burning  ragsl"  he  darted  out 
of  the  room. 

Rose  was  not  in  the  kitchen.  He  bent  over  the 
kettle.  Yes,  it  had  caught  a  wee  bit,  not  much 
damaged,  he  hoped,  as  he  lifted  it  off.  He  was 
carefully  transporting  the  sauce  from  the  kettle  to 
a  bowl  when  Rose  returned  to  the  room.  She  was 
highly  offended  at  his  "  meddling,"  as  she  called 
it,  and  demanded  the  spoon,  but  Ike  had  no  idea 
of  yielding  it. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Hargreave  called  again :  "  Isaac, 
Isaac,  have  you  found  out  where  the  rags  ate 
burning?"  and  he  was  obliged  to  go.         ,  , 

♦'  Dont  touch  it,  please,  Rose.  If  any  is  scrapt  \ 
from  the  bottom  it  will  t^wte,"  he  said  as  he  went 
out.  *    ".'.    --     ...',.. 

Rose  said  she  was  very  careful,  but  there  was  a 
slight  taste  to  his  favorite  sauce  which  Mr.  Har- 
greave discovered  immediately.  June  was  too 
muchftbsorbed  in  her  thoughts  to  notice  it^and 


■ .  \>wi!^'£::r:  -^.ajfc  f:;yi«iHtyjl;E^ ''.'" 


ft&s  endless; 
Vhat  is  that 
5  darted  out 

>ent  over  the 
it,  not  much 
off.  He  was 
the  kettle  to 
m.  She  was 
IS  she  called 
had  no  idea 

rain:  "Isaac, 
the  rags  are 

;o.    ■ . . ,,-  _, 

iny  is  scrape  \ 
1  as  he  went 

b  there  was  a 
Lch  Mr.  Har- 
une  was  too 
notice  it^and 


"mmm 


[WVi 


mimmmimmim 


MISS  JUHIPEB  OUX  ON  DUTY. 


181 


answered  her  father's  rather  hasty :  "  Juniper, 
I  thought  you  knew  how  to  make  apple  sauce," 
with  the  as  hasty :  "  I  am  of  the  same  opinion 
yet,  sir."       ..    ,..  ;     .  .     „     .  , 

So  Rose  and  Ike  escaped. 

That   evening    June   had   business   with  her 

father.    ^  ,  '  ^^ 

"Popsydil,  didn't  Uncle  John  write  that  he 

needed  a  good  clerk?"    -     .         ,    ,  .  ,,     ,    .^  ,| 
"I  believe  he  did.  Juniper,"  \ 

"I  have  one  for  him."  ., 

"  Ah ! "    Mr.  Hargreave  elevated  his  eyebrows 

slightly.    "  The  latest  notion  1    Ike's  getting  old, 

hey?""  ' "  r     -■,.}.^,k 

"It's  a  friend.    Richard  Perkins."      ,     ,    , 

Mr.  Hargroave,  started  up. 

« j;  had  a  schotl  chum  by  that  name.  One  of 
the  most  spleiidilly  built  fellows  I  ever  saw. 
Wonder  if  this  ckap  belongs  to  him?  Where  did 
you  pick  him  up,  June?" 

"Haven't  picked  him  up,  sir.  I'm  his  sister's 
friend."^      -'  ^'  ^^": '^-  ^^;  ' '      "'  -:       .■:•:. 


tiawuu.'  wimmmttitmmm 


■  1 


/T: 


OUB  STBEEIt 


•  i,  bSillf. 


"O!    Is  he  smart,  intelligent,  well-educawd? 
Your  uncle  is  not  easily  suited." 

June  could  not  answer  these  questions,  so  she 
sought  Ike.  She  found  hun  but  little  disposed  to 
talk  of  Dick.  He  answered  her  questions  as  to 
his  abilities  and  attainments  frankly.  He  had 
always  heard  that  Dick  was  a  smart  man  at  his 
own  work ;  he  had  not  much  learning,  and  Ike 
thought  he  would  not -care  for  much  more.      --'- 

"  I  should  think  a  good-looking,  smart  young 
man  would  have  some  ambition,"  June  said,  disap- 
pointed. "Do  you  know  anything  about  hia 
father,  Ike?" 

"Not  much." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"Yes,  miss." 
,    "Was    Dick   named   for  his  father,  do    you 

know?" 

Yes,  Ike  knew  that  from  Bryony. 

"  Then  he  must  be  the  f.on  of  my  father's  school 
friend  by  that  name.  «  What  did  he  die  of  ?  Do 
you  know?"  •  . 


'■'^^t^tsi^mitmimmiaimiMiam 


mxMtwtwiWtag 


J. 


11-educated? 

^,   ...  ,,,»    »-{:;  '■  • 

ions,  so  she 
disposed  to 
istions  as  to 
y.    He  had 
;  man  at  his 
ng,  and  Ike 
h  more.  *^"  ^^ 
smart  young 
le  said,  disap- 
g   ahout  his 

iher,  do   you 


ty. 

ather's  school 

9  die  of?    Do 


MtmMaatlm 


■P«p«|Miii«fW!9i> 


■WI!Wf!W 


!f-W 


MISS  JUNIPEB  OUT  ON  DUTY. 


188 


Ike  did  know,  but  he  hesitated  painfully. 

"  Bryony  doesn't  like  to  have  it  known,"  he  at 
l83t  replied  to  her  urgency,,  .^^  ^^^^ 

"Whyl    he    wasn't    hung,  or   imprisoned ?'^^ 
June  cried  out  in  sudden  fear.  ^,r    ^.^.y^f^  -.o  -j'^sii 

"No,  miss."   ■ffxX.i>9u;mm<^iii  ya&  rstj?i;<.u;  j»u*' 
"He  didn't  kill  Mmself?"   she  persisted.  ,,j,jg 
uN^_that  is,  not  in  the  way  you   think.  ^ 
Rvira  killed  him,  Miss  June."   .^s;,^,^  r^n  ijtgiif4,rit " 

Ike's  voice  was  subdued  and  solemn.     June 
turned  away,  shivering.    She  did  not  think  then»^ 
but  it  came  to  her  afterwards,  that  perhaps  Diclt, 
inherited   his   father's    appetite.      Ike's    evident 
reluctance  to  speak  of  him  confirmed  her  in  this 
opinion,  and  thus  was  suddenly  dashed  one  of  Miss 
Juniper's  numerous  brilliant  schemes.       ^jvtT'- 


f 


MMMtM 


^i;:,  0)  >'(■■;-•&  i:'y 


^^^s 


CHAPTER  XI.      i; 

PANGS  AND  rCIJETR  APTEBWABDS. 


..1    '  r; 


WINTER  was  almost  over.  Granny  Thorpe 
was  not  the  only  person  on  Our  Street 
who  rejoiced  in  the  fact.  By  none  is  spring 
looked  forward  to  so  eager^'  as  by  the  poor. 
"Late  in  February  now;  theT3  can  not  be  much  ; 
more  cold  weather,"  men  said  ;  but,  as  if  to  defy 
them,  winter  saved  for  this  time  one  of  his  fiercest 
storms.  ' 

These  days  and  weeks  had  heard  one  plea  go  up  . 
from  little  Bryony's  heart  and  lips:  "Dear  God,  j 
shut  up  Mt.  Jenkins'  shop,  for  Jesus'  &ake ;  "  and 
little  Stevie,  often  with  her,  learned  to  repeat  the  , 
petition  too.    Little  Bry  remembered  tha'.  there 
184 


^^ 


.iiiiriiwiwiwwmi 


. .         ;      ...     ".  • '  t» 


■j;r  '.:'."■/  ■.'.')!,  -.■•'f/.- ' 


4BDS. 


;,    >!-.;■> 


ranny  Thorpe 
a  Oiir  Street 
tne  is  spring 
by  the  poor, 
not  be  much 
as  if  to  defy 
of  his  fiercest 

me  plea  go  up 
;  "Dear  God, 
s'  &ake ;  "  and 
to  repeat  the 
ed  tha',  there 


mmtm 


,.i]ii)  i-iimiiiiui  WHWIUH  IB  i|iiw»ainii iijiimi 


•i»HPpppw»!P"«'ff"WTw 


PANGS  AND  THEIR  AFTEBWABDS.         185 

was  a  promise  to  two  joined  in  one  supplication, 
and  so  pledged  her  tiny  friend  to  offer  it  often  and 
always  for  "  Jesus'  sake,  'cause  God  always  says 
'Yes,'  then."        ^^  -    .  t 

Bry  had  not  forgotten  that  little  glimpse  of 
Edward  Parker's  face  in  Jenkins'  saloon,  and  now 
she  noted,  with  a  trembling  heart,  that  he  oftener 
came  around  that  way  from  work  than  heretofore. 
She  never  spoke  her  fears,  even  to  Ike.    She 
would  not  have  had  little  Stevie  know  it  for  the 
world  I  but  she  prayed  with  greater  fervency  if 
possible,  and  more  frequently.  *   ..  4-  j.*,^^' 
The  grea!t  snow-storm  kept  the  little  fellow  in 
the  house  for  a  day  or  two,  then  a  slight  cough 
detained  him  yet  longer  from  Bryony's  side.    He 
was  a  very  uneasy  child  under  restraint,  more 
human  than  angelic,  perhaps,  and  kicked    out 
many  an  ill-humor  on  the  floor.    Yet  he  generally 
made  what  he  considered  amends  for  all  this  by 
kissing  his  mother,  and  promising  "  I'll  neber  do 
it  no  morel" 

Poor  little  fellow  I   his  memory  was  not  much 


^ 


1 


iaia»*8«Jii»Sn**»Mi<''' 


ii'5B«»t«»"w<ir^iCT>*Ma^**JSIS!!BIIIBrti 


sssssss 


el 


186 


.V-fti!^ 


OUB  8TBBET. 


'p-'i''/.'/ 


longer  than  his  nose.    One  day  he  chafed  more 
than  usual,  and  was  very  naughty ;  but  presently 
sat  down  in  a  corner,  as  if  thinking:      *,.«>' 
"  Has  Dod  dot  nenny  mamma  ?  "  he  asked,  after 
a  little.' •'*       -'Ui.:.t^i>i   ■> '   u'l   i^a^i  iitHdi^^l   :''■-■  iji?' 
"No,"  his  mother  replied.   shMirforj-i  *    -^r'-itifti 
«  Then  he  don't  det  wocked  when  he's  naughty, 
and  dirts  his  apron? '*^^A-^'''-^'^i^«"'«-''»^'*        ' 
"  God  is  never  naughty,"  answered  Mary,  smil- 
ing. ^     ■  ■  "  ^"       '  -'  ■'"'■  '  ■■---"  ■  ^-'  ""*-^*« 
But  Stevie  took  no  notice  of  smile  or  answer. 
"If  I  was  God,  an'  hadn't  nenny  mudder,  I'd 
'ick  old  Dinkins,!  would,  and  I  will,  en'way  when 
I  get  up  to  papa !  "    And  the  small  chap  doubled 
up  his  fists  nimbly.    He  got  up  and  walked  to  a 
window,  then  came  back  to  his  mother's  side.  |g 
^:  "Does  my  papa  dwink!"  he  asked,  soberly.,^' 
a,  Mary  started  and  colored.  j^ 
^  "  Everybody  drinks,"  she  said,  evasively.        J^ 
»  Not  outer  old  bottles.    I  dudn't,  an'  uo  dudn't, 
an'  Bry  dudn't "  — children's  questions  are  not  to 
be  evaded  — "ao'  I  ^aw  my  farder  drink  outer  a 
bottle." 


mfjlifmtm^iiffim>''^mn''t'^VM  ,'^»w"w  uii,J.'up" 


iii|^<||ip||l!l|{l 


^miPiifamipK.aiaiUiliiiilil  niun 


Q  ohafed  more 
but  presently 

he  asked,  after 


<Hi\a<i 


a  he's  naughty, 

red  Mary,  smil- 

mile  or  answer, 
ny  mudder,  I'd 
11,  eu'way  when 
11  chap  doubled 
ind  walked  to  a 
mother's  side, 
aked,  soberly.   - 

,  evasively.  ' 
I't,  an'  uo  dudn't, 
rtions  are  not  to 
er  drink  outer  a 


PANQS  AMD  THKIB  AFTEEWABDS. 


187 


V  « Folks  always  drink  medicine  out  of  bottles," 
said  the  mother,  still  avoiding  the  question. 
.  «» Bry  tates  hers  outer  tumbel,"  said  the  little 
fellow,  stoutly.  "  'Sides,  it's  ole  nas'y  bottle,  jes' 
'ike  ole  Dinkins  has  in  er  winder.  It's  sick- 
makers,  I  know  'tis.  Dinkins'U  be  sut  up  soon, 
'cause  Bry  an'  me  we's  prayin'  to  Dedus." 

Mary  looked  down  at  the  curly-headed  mite. 
-^  "Did  Bryony  tell  you  that  papa  drank?  "  she 
asked.  -  ^  'J^.V.'^^^,    ^^'^-  -':/^«  f  '^ '  '"     \      '^^ 
s  "No,  her  didn't  1"    the  curly  head    nodded 
emphatically.     "Her  dudn't  know  en'ting  'bout 
it.    I  neber  telled  her,  'cause  her'd  be  sorry ;  but 
I  teUed  Dod."      ^^  m'^^^-'y  ^  ■  - *^'H  ^'  H«  ^-'^i  ^■ 
«  Mary  Parker  said  no  more,  but  she  felt  uneasy 
all  the  afternooiu    She  watched  her  darling  nar- 
rowly, and  his  little  cough  smote  her  heart.    His 
little  cheeks  were  very  red  that  night,  as  she  sat 
beside  his  crib  waiting  his  father's  coming.    He 
was  very  late,  and  had  not  been  in  to  supper.    His 
wife  met  him  bitterly :  ^*^  -^* 

'♦You  have  been  in  Jenkins'  again! "  she  said. 


■  i 


1 


*     -5 


...-:.-  ./--fi3laaj^:iii^,.Jfc.^a-virii„.,s»/iiri( 


tiJ 


188 


(''ir^    OUB  BTBKBT. 


How  can  you  neglect  little  Stevie  and  me  so  much ! 
^''ou  are  ruining  yourself  I"  j 

But  Mr.  Parker  only  growled:  "  Shut  up!  will 
you?"  '  u 

A  woman  does  not  always  obey  implicitly  when 
asked  so  politely  to  do  a  thing.  Mary  Parker  was 
not  yet  so  well  used  to  harsh  words  as  to  receive 
them  quietly.  She  began  to  cry,  and  her  husband, 
somewhat  ashamed,  tried  to  extenuate  himself. 
♦*  You  make  a  great  fuss,  Mary,  over  a  little 
whisky.  The  old  doctor  told  me  to  take  a  swallow 
or  two  whenever  those  faint  attacks  came  on,  and 
I've  had  them  pretty  often,  lately." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  don't  stop  at  a  swallow  or  two. 
It's  a  glass  or  two,  and  every  day  at  that." 

"  I  work  hard,"  said  Mr.  Parker,  "  and  if  whisky 
gives  me  strength  when  I'm  faint,  it'll  give  me 
more  when  I'm  not.  You  should  be  the  last  to 
grumble,  since  it  is  to  earn  more  for  you." 

"  For  old  Jenkins,  you  mean.  You  don't  bring 
in  as  much  as  you  used  to.  O,  Edward,  even  that 
child  notices  it.  He  told  me  to-day  that  he  saw 
you  drinking." 


alHW 


_-"—     -^ 


art*  A- 


ad  me  so  much ! 

♦Shut  up!  will 

implicitly  when 
lary  Parker  was 
Is  as  to  receive 
nd  her  husband, 
jnuate  himself, 
ry,  over  a  little 

0  take  a  swallow 
ks  came  on,  and 
!ly.     - 

swallow  or  two. 
lay  at  that." 

,  "  and  if  whisky 
nt,  it'll  give  me 

1  be  the  last  to 
re  for  you." 
You  don't  bring 
dward,  even  that 
lay  that  he  saw 


PANGS  AND  THXilU  APTEBWABDB. 


189 


Edward  Parker  grew  angry.  "That's  from 
letting  him  be  so  much  with  that  silly  brat  across 
the  street,  making  a  fool  of  herself,  and  of  Dick, 
too !  I'll  not  stand  it  if  he's  fool  enough  to.  If 
she  puts  any  more  in  that  child's  head  I'll  shut 
her  up  pretty  quick.  You  needn't  let  him  go  over 
there  again." 

In  vain  Mary  protested  that  Bry  was  not  to 
blame,  and  repeated  what  Stevie  had  said.  He 
would  not  listen,  and,  getting  heavy  and  stupid, 
tumbled  into  bed.  It  was  hours  before  his  wife 
slept,  and  then  she  was  soon  roused  by  a  hoarse 
rattling  cough  from  the  crib,  the  cough  that  has 
struck  terror  to  so  many  loving  mother-hearts. 

The  feverish,  flushed  face  of  her  darling  added 
to  her  alarm,  yet  in  vain  were  all  her  efforts  to 
arouse  her  husband  from  his  drunken  slumbers. 
He  muttered  something  about  "  women's  whims," 
"a  little  cold,"  and  lapsed  imn:ediate)y  into 
unconsciousness  again.       ^..      .,  - 

Still  the  cough  rang  on  the  air,  and  again  and 
again  the  woman  tried  to  rouse  her  husband.     At 


a«- 


y.--.  .-.-^r^    ...... ^..    ■  ■■  ,  in,A^.i.r.. 


mmmmmmmmmm 


100 


\/.-'}'tS  OUB  8TBBKT. 


■Va' 


'/ 


n 


}?. 


i.; 


n 


loBt  with  success.  He  got  on  his  feet,  and,'Wter  a 
little,  half-comprehending,  started  for  the  doctor. 
Alas!  when  Dr.  Fosby  arrived  it  was  too  late. 
In  less  than  an  hour  after  his  coming  little  Stevie 
was  dead,  and  his  mother  passuig  from  one 
hysteric  fit  into  another.        ' -<  ^^  - ;    .:     ,v. 

All  night  Widow  Graf  ham  and  old  Nurse 
Adams  worked  over  the  stricken  woman,  but  her 
husband  sat  as  one  stunned.  He  was  beginning 
to  awake  from  the  slumber  of  months.   " '^ '' 

Little  Bry  was  restless  all  that  night,  troubled 
all  the  next  morning.     From  her  window  she  saw 
Mrs.  Graf  ham,  Kiddy  and  Letty  running  back  and 
forth,  and  feared  something  was  wrong.  She  longed 
to  go  forth  like  others,  and  inquire  what  it  meant. 
And  at  last,  unable  to  bear  it  longer,  she  ven- 
tured, in  spite  of  the  formidable  banks  of  snow. 
A  passer-by  helped  her  over  the  street.    Widow 
Graf  ham  saw  her  coming,  and  met  her  at  the 
door.    Kiddy  helped  her  tenderly  up-stairs,  then, 
when  she  was  seated,  they  stood  and  looked  at 
her.   -   ■  ^^'^-^   ■.-;..  Tir-^^^r/t? 


wmmm^'^ssmBmi^'^mmmBimmBimBmmmm 


mmmmmmmmmmmi 


itrmmmm^m '¥'iir[ 


et,  andTAfter  a 
for  the  doctor. 
,  was  too  lute, 
ig  little  Stevie 
liiig    from    one 

nd    old    Nurse 
;<roinan,  but  her 

was  beginning 
onths.       '  •' 

night,  troubled 
window  she  saw 
iipning  back  and 
ong.  She  longed 
Q  what  it  meant, 
longer,  she  ven- 
)  banks  of  snow. 

street.    Widow 

met  her  at  the 
y  up-stairs,  then, 
i  and  looked  at 


FAKOa  AMD  THUm  ATrBBWABDB. 


191 


;»  Kiddy  Langdon's  loving  heart  sank  when  her 
mother  was  summoned  out  of  the  room,  and  she  saw 
that  the  sad  task  of  ro  /ealing  the  news  to  Bryony 
devolved  on  herself.    S>  .  dreaded  the  first  ques- 


,.» I,    J.'. 1)1   -J 


"Is  Stevio  sick?"  w-'.^     .n;     (?  f 

>r  "No."    How  relieved  Kiddy  felt  even  at  this 
little  delay.    '?  ^'ui.>ru.   '.>m  u  ■  -  .;;■-..'/  ■<>■-'.-- 
:^    "Is  Mrs.  Parker?"         •■    >  •■  '/t'l^-'/f  ,-«i-fS 
"Yes."  'i.i'!''i'.*'  ,"■/  T-'''  it  '''^'   ■'•''■"    ''■'■'  '■  ■'^■■'■'  '^'"^  ''-■■ 
i>  "  O,  I  am  glad  I  carc-  over !    I  can  take  care  of 

Stevie.     He's  always  good  with  me." 
b    •'Poor  little  Bry  I "     Kiddy  stooped  and  kissed 

her  as  she  spoke.    "  Stevie  will  never  want  any- 
.one  to  take   care  of  him  again.    He's  gone  to 

Jesus  I "  and  Bry  looked  up  a  moment  helplessly 

in  the  sympathetic  eyes  above,  and  fell  faint- 


^ftt-*^ 


iXi'SA'j-ij-'-'f'f*.?' 


"  It's  not  'cause  I'm  sorry  Jesus  took  him,"  she 
said,  after  sitting  with  white  face  and  folded 
hands.  "O,  nol  I'm  not  sorry  Jesus  took  him, 
but —but— I  loved  him  so,  and  I  didn't  'spect 


« 

■■'.-'■ 

' 

• 

1 

.  '^K 

t  1 

J,. 

J» 

M^Jk 

i:^ 

,„j^ 

iMiiiiJ^ 

192 


OXJB  8TB1SET. 


„ ..    Ah,  UtUe  Bry,  you  »e  not  the  tot,  n«ther 
„m  you  be  the  tat,  who  Borrows,  not  for  theu 

saved,  but  for  themselves. 
It  w»  her  owuUtUeStevie  that  Uy  there,  so 

„„te  yet  so  life-like.    Tears  spraug  to  her  eye,  « 
,i,  kissed  his   eh^k,  aud   asked   to   see   hx 

"Cmow  Graf  ham  w«.  a  Uttle  fearful  about  the 
result  if  Bryony  should  see  Mrs.  Parker  now  ,ust 
..  she  had  been  quieted ;  but  the  ehUd  would  not 
be  refused.  "  He  belonged  just  to  us  two ;  she  d 
rather  have  me  than  anyone  else." 

Bry  was  right.    The  sight  of  her  brought  the 
first  tear  shed  si.ee  her  boy's  death  to  Mary 

Parker's  eyes.     .    •.,    . 

„0  Bryl"  she  sobbed.     "Don't  you  remem- 
ber what  you  said  when  you  first  ^w  him?    'If. 

'     „  comfortable  to   have  a  babyl'   and  now- 

"TAnd  now,"  said  HtUe  Bry,flmshing  the  broken 
«,„tenee,  wi*  a  voice  that  trembled  though  .t 
„eant  to  be  so  brave,  "no.  it's  so  eomforUble  to 


lie  first,  neither 
J,  not  for  theijc 

at  lay  there,  so 
g  to  her  eyes  as 
:ed    to    see   hia 

earful  about  the 

Parker  now,  just 

child  would  not 

tx)  us  two;  she'd 

Ise." 

her  brought  the 
J  death  to  Mary 

on't  you  remem- 
t  -»awhim?  'It's 
byl'    and  now  — 

mishing  the  broken 
rembled  though  it 
J  so  comfortable  to 


«■ 


PAKOS  AND  THEIB  AFTEBWABDS. 


198 


have  an  angel  I "  and  she  laid  her  head  on  Mary 
Parker's  bosom,  and  cried  her  fill.    "       '       '  ^' 

It  did  them  both  good.  After  that  Mary  could 
talk  more  calmly,  and  told  Bry  the  story  of  the 
night  before.  "And  now,"  she  said,  wistfully, 
"do  you  feel  quite  sure  that  he'3  an  angel, 
Bry?"  ^^- 

"Not 'zactly,"  Bry  confessed.  "But  something 
nice  enough  for  heaven,  something  that  only  God 
can  make."  ' 

Bryony  stayed  all  day  with  the  bereaved 
mother.  Dick  dined  with  Widow  Grafham. 
That  night  the  little  girl  opened  her  Bible  again 
to  the  verse  before  so  strangely  dark.  "All 
things  work  together  for  good  to  their  that  love 
God." 

"It's  good  for  him,"  she  whispered;  "but  — 
but —  Well,  what's  his  good  ought  to  be  mine." 
Yet,  in  spite  of  this  true  reasoning,  Bry  cried  her- 
self to  sleep. 

In  the  days  that  followed  Bryony  spent  most  of 
her  time  with  Mrs.  Parker.     The  day  of  the 


^.,1.ijU-'.if|)"l'Jiij>'.ui U  f-  '■" 


•y'M;-^   '■" 


194 


OXTB  BTBBEi?. 


;>,■<*/*? 


funeral  Edward  Parker,  finding  them  together, 

spoke  thus: 

,  "I  want  you  both  to  know  I've  quit  drinking. 
I've  kiUed  my  hoy,  no  doubt.    The  doctor  said  he 
could  have  saved  him  if   he  had   been   called 
sooner;    if   it  hadn't  been  for  drink  he  would 
have  been  called  soon  enough.    Well "  -with  a 
groan -"perhaps  'twas  needed.     I'd  'a'  killed 
myself,  like  as  not,  and  you  too,  Mary.    But 
I've  quit.    The  cursed  stuff  hasn't  such  a  hold  of 
me  yet  but  I  can  break  it  off.    Little  Biy,  I 
thank  you  for  teaching  Stevie  all  he  knew  of 
heaven.     He'd  have  been  saved,  I  doubt  not, 
without  it;   but  it's   pleasanter   for   the    little 
fellow  to  be  where  he's  acquainted." 

Edward  Parker  kept  his  word.  Many  a  day 
afterwards -sad,  lonely  days  they  were,  too- 
Bryony  comforted  herself  in  her  sorrow,  as  she 
aaw  him  enter  his  door  with  an  unfaltering 
step,  and  from  a  direction  opposite  to  Jenkins' 
saloon.  --■■     ■■■'■."-."'«,  ■'/■■-,■'  '^^^  '■•"•  -i ::":/■  - 

"  It  did  work  for  good,"  she  would  say  to  her- 


^  *-aS.m 


^i^is^iiidi^Miiit^^''^ 


■r«-.1'>..j'H;l^PV""    "'"" 


ihem  together, 

quit  drinking. 
I  doctor  said  he 
d   been   called 
Irink  he  would 
^ell"— with  a 
I'd  'a'  killed 
00,  Mary.    But 
t  such  a  hold  of 
:.    Little  Biy,  I 

all  he  knew  of 
d,  I  doubt  not, 
:  for  the  little 
tted." 

rd.  Many  a  day 
ihey  were,  too  — 
er  sorrow,  as  she 
1  an  unfaltering 
K)site  to  Jenkins' 


would  say  to  her- 


CHAPTER  Xn.  I 

ME.  JTBUKINS'  BXrr.        '.      ' 

TKE,  who  had  heard  of  Stevie's  death  while  in 
1  the  city  on  an  errand,  came  to  see  Bryony, 
and  brought  a  flower-pot,  containing  a  tea-rose, 
from  June,  as  a  token  of  her  sympathy. 

On  his  way  thither  he  heard  that  Mr.  Jenkins 
was  sick,  but  to  Bryony's  eager  inquiry  answered 
that  the  saloon  was  still  open. 

The  news  was  true.    Mr.   Jenkins  had  con- 
tracted    a    severe    oold-nothmg   serious,  the 
doctor  said-but  he  was  laid  aside  for  awhUe. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  ever  since  her  inter- 
view with  little  Bry,  Mrs.  Jenkins   had   been 
unusuaUy  nervous,  and  hailed  this  slight  sickness 

196        ;::-:,.-;''•>-;.; 


■f^i^t^'^^^t^^^-''^^^^^'''^^^'^^'- 


Pii 


^w^p^^^^l^^^^p 


r.      '. 

i  death  while  in 
I  to  Bee  Bryony, 
lining  a  tea-rose, 
sympathy, 
that  Mr.  Jenkins 
inquiry  answered 

• 

Jenkins  had  con- 
hing  serious,  the 
aside  for  awhile, 
er  since  her  inter- 
enkins  had  been 
this  slight  sickness 


MB.  JENKINS*  EXIT. 


197 


with  an  alarm  which  seemed  very  unnecessary. 
She  talked  to  her  husband  quite  seriously  about 
his  business,  and  begged  him  to  give  it  up.  He 
laughed  at  her,  and  asked  her  where  she  would 
get  her  fine  silks  if  he  did? 

"  You  are  foolish  and  superstitious,  Mary  Ann. 
I  gave  you  credit  for  more  sense  than  to  be 
disturbed  by  the  words  of  a  child  I " 

But  Mrs.  Jenkins  was  very  seriously  dis- 
turbed. 

A  week  passed.  The  sick  man  did  not  rally. 
On  the  contrary,  his  symptoms  were  aggravated, 
rather,  and  again  his  wife  expostulated  with  him. 
He  was  angry  now,  and  bade  her  be  still.  "I 
shall  be  down-fitairs  in  less  than  a  week.  Neither 
God  nor  man  shall  hinder  my  business,"  he  said. 
In  less  than  three  hours  after  he  was  in  high 
delirium.  Then  his  wife  closed  the  saloon  and 
dismissed  Sands. 

In  vain  was  every  remedy  applied  that  skill 
could  devise.  A  fortnight  after  Mr.  Jenkins  was 
buried,  and  he  had  never  spoken  one  ration"!  word 
since  those  of  his  vain  boasting. 


S'c^*g<»"*i- 


>' 


-    -     -S  , 


198 


0X7B  BTBXEne, 


Bry  first  heard  of  his  death  through  Hephzibah. 
She  had  come  home  for  a  few  hours  to  see  her 
grandmother,  and  ran  over  to  gossip  with  our 

little  friend. 

"They  say,  too,  that  Mrs.  Jenkins  lays  hia 
death  all  to  you,"  said  the  thoughtless  girl,  not 
dreaming  how  she  wounded  the  sensitive  pknt 

beside  her.  -  _ 

Poor  little  Bry  carried  those  words  for  weeks, 
and  they  grew  very  heavy,  until  her  heart  could 
no  longer  bear  their  burden.    She  heard  that  Mrs. 
Jenkins  was  about  to  go  to  New  York,  and  per- 
suaded  Ike,  one  evening  when  in  the  city,  to  help 
her  again  to  the  saloon  door. 
'      Ike  stood  without  the  house.    A  servant  con- 
ducted  Bryony  to  a  room  where  three  ladies  sat. 
The  child  easily  recognized  the  face  of  her  former 
•  visitor,  though  its  beauty  was  marred  by  recent 
'  Borrow.    As  for  Mrs.  Jenkins,  she  could  never 
\  forgot  that  chUd's  face.    It  had  haunted  her  for 

months. 

The  two  young   ladies  were  her    daughters. 


«      ♦ 


„»ii«iis»aSjb!«*!^' ■ 


ugh  Heplizibah. 
ours  to  see  her 
^ssip  with  our 

enkins  lays  his 

ghtless  girl,  not 

sensitive  plant 

^rords  for  weeks, 
her  heart  could 
e  heard  that  Mrs. 
iw  York,  and  per- 
i  the  city,  to  help 

.  A  servant  con- 
)  three  ladies  sat. 
face  of  her  former 
marred  by  recent 
,  she  could  never 
,d  haunted  her  for 

re  her    daughters. 


Mfi 


MB.  JENKINS'  EXIT. 


199 


She  presented  them  to  Bry,  and  then  silently 
waited  to  hear  her  state  her  errand.  But  the 
child's  tongue  seemed  tied.  How  to  introduce 
her  subject  she  knew  not.  She  looked,  in  evident 
embarrassment,  from  one  lady  to  another;  then, 
tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  she  cried: 
.  « I  didn't  kill  himl  O,  I  didn't  want  him  to 
die  I     I  never  prayed  for  thatl" 

Mrs.  Jenkins  was  much  moved.-  "I  never  sup- 
posed you  didl"  she  said. 

"But — but  they  said  you  blamed  me,  please, 
and  1  couldn't  bear  it.  I  only  wanted  him  to 
stop  selling  it.  I  rrnut  have  him  stop,  but  I'd 
rather  he  had  stopped  some  other  way." 

"You  cannot  kill  or  make  alive  —  of  course  I 
know  that." 

Mrs.  Jenkins  spoke  with  a  slow,  painful  intona- 

'..  -^   t, 

tion,  that  smote  the  child's  warm  heart. 

■'No,  please;  but— but— I  hope  you'll  not 
blame  God.  He  has  no  pleasure  in  the  death  of 
the  wicked  — he  says  so;  and  he  wouldn't  have 
taken  that  way  if— if— there  was  any  other. 
He  knows,  marm." 


1^ 


OUB  8TREBT. 

f 

Ah,  how  true  every  syllable  1  Mrs.  Jenkins 
thought  of  her  vain  pleadings,  her  husband's 
boastful  words;  but  she  did  not  speak,  and  the 
child  rose  to  go. 

The  lady  rose,  too. 

"Perhaps  it  will  give  you  pleasure,"  she  said, 
♦'  to  know  that  I  have  had  all  the  liquor  from  the 
saloon  emptied  into  the  back  bay  "  —  the  glad 
uplifted  eyes  spoke  for  Bryony— "and  I  am 
going  to  keep  the  property  until  I  can  sell  it  to 
those  who  will  not  use  it  for  this  traffic,"  con- 
tinued the  woman. 

Her  hand  was  seized  warmly,  while  tears  and 
kisses  rained  upon  it.     "He  is  fwh  a  God,"  said 

Bry. 
Down  in  the  hall,  the  door  opened,  again  the 

child  hesitated  a  moment. 

"You  do  not  blame  me  for  praying?"  Ike 
heard  her  say. 

"  No ;  it  was  all  left  you—  all  left  any  of  those 
poor  victims."       „    ^i^.--  --  <  i    -   , 

"Then  please  kiss  me."      > 


.,>  i,^'  I'.U'^"--'* 


T 


L«SK»*X"*iJlA'K5KtUsaM 


^..jLriniiir^'"''^"'™^^"^- 


Mrs.  Jenkins 
her  husband's 
speak,  and  the 


ure,"  she  said, 
liquor  from  the 
y  "  —  the  glad 
—  "and  I  am 
[  can  sell  it  to 
is  traffic,"  con- 

t^hile  tears  and 
oh  a  God,"  said 

ened,  again  the 

praying?"    Ike 

.eft  any  of  those 


-  n 


MB  JEXKINS'  EXIT. 


201 


The  woman  stooped  and  gave  the  desired 
caress.  "You  have  taught  me  the  power  of 
prayer,"  she  said,  "I,  who  have  never  prayed. 
When  next  yo  pray  let  it  be  for  one  whose  heart 
is  broken."  •  ;  ,.  ./r;  .^^'.•:.  -;i.  ■■' 'tv^/'i 

Then  the  child  went  out,  and  the  lady  went  up- 
stairs ;  but  for  days  and  weeks  after,  those  words 
kept  ringing  in  her  ears :  "  ♦  He  has  no  pleasure  in 
the  death  of  the  wicked ;  he  says  so.' "  "  It  shall 
not  return  unto  me  void,"  says  God  of  his  word. 
If  you  would  speak  convincingly,  reader,  speak 
scripturally.  "  For  the  v  ord  of  God  is  quick  and 
powerful,  and  sharper  than  any  two-edged  sword, 
piercing  even  to  the  dividing  asunder  of  soul  and 
spirit,  and  of  the  joints  and  marrow,  and  is  a 
discemer  of   the  thoughts  and  intents   of   the 

heart."    ■''-■'       '■■«-.-.-   '..-„.■,;-:, ii.t  ^a^^,-  .-«'  *■   *:'««-Ki....'r!i;    '.,":■: 

That  night,  Ike  Hobson,  growing  eloquent  in 
prayer,  as  he  was  wont,  cried :  "  O,  shut  them  all 
up,  dear  Lord,  shut  them  all  up.  Ten  thousand 
little  Brys  are  lifting  helpless  hands  and  cries 
throughout  our  rum-cursed  land.    In  pity  answer 


202 


OTJB  BTEIBT.   '/ 


them,  for  Jesus' sake."  Amenl  Amen!  O,  who 
will  join  in  the  petition?  "Behold,  the  Lord's 
hand  is  not  shortened,  that  it  cannot  save ;  neither 
his  ear  heavy,  that  it  cannot  hear."     • 

Now  that  Mr.  Jenkins'  saloon  was  shut,  Bry 
had  no  doubt  hut  her  trial  was  over.  Little  did 
she  understand  the  strength  of  the  enemy  with 
which  she  coped.  Her  heart  grew  lighter,  her 
eye  brighter;  for,  aside  from  the  poverty  which 
Dick's  habits  had  brought  to  his  home,  had  been 
frequent  rough  words,  coarse  oaths,  and  a  breath 
seldom  pure.    But  all  this  would  be  changed  now, 

she  was  sure. 

The  rose-tree  sent  her  by  Juniper  was  a  great 
delight  to  the  little  one.  Back  and  forth  she 
moved  it,  from  spot  to  spot  of  the  single  window 
through  which  the  sun  entered,  that  it  might  catch 
all  its  rays,  and  she  watered  it  faithfully.  Many 
were  the  sweet  words  cooed  over  it,  the  happy 
dreams  of  farm-life  it  suggested;  a  real  fairy  was 
it  in  that  meagre  home. 

Then,  too,  her  Bible  blossomed  to  new  beauty 


.^A-awftu-tur-v*  •■ 


^  fJ%l.iA'i4H/A»t  -■■ 


Amen  I  O,  who 
lold,  the  Lord's 
Qot  save ;  neither 

• 

n  wiis  shut,  Bry 
over.  Little  did 
the  enemy  with 
grew  lighter,  her 
le  poverty  which 
i  home,  had  been 
atha,  and  a  breath 
1  be  changed  now, 

aiper  was  a  great 
ick  and  forth  she 
the  single  window 
that  it  might  catch 
faithfully.  Many 
>ver  it,  the  happy 
d;  a  real  fairy  wa» 

ned  to  new  beauty 


m 


MB.  JENKINS*  lEXIT. 


208 


oonstantly.  Every  verse  was  a  friend.  Some 
such  dear  old  friends,  but  one  day  she  met  a  new 
one  —  a  strange  one,  too,  she  thought:         . 

♦♦  When  the  enemy  shall  come  in  like  a  flood, 
the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  shall  lift  up  a  standard 
against  him."  ■'■'  ■•■^■'*^    '-■'"''   •■■;•  •-■"  •■•'-^"  "'  '■  '■'■^^■- 

Bry  read  it  over  and  over  slowly.  She  could 
read  very  nicely  now.  Ike  helped  her  a  little 
evefy  time  he  came  in,  but  this  verse  puzzled 
her."  '^s^Of'v''  ;>'  <  n^..r'.r',  •.:;i. 


■r-.  f 


'f  M 


" '  Enemy ' ;  that's  somebody  that  hates  us  and 
wants  to  do  us  harm.  Yes,  I  understand  that," 
she  said.  " '  Comes  in  like  a  flood,' "  she  paused 
again.  "  O,  yes  1 "  face  brightening,  "  like  Noah's ; 
sweeping  off  everything,  covering  everything  but 
just  God's  folks.  *  Then  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord ' " 
.  .1,  the  rest  of  it  was  very  blind  to  her.      ' 

"He'll  teach  me  some  day,  I  know,"  she  said. 
"Everything  means  something,  and  everything 
grows  plain  in  his  tune.  I  'member  about  my 
♦  All  things '  verse.  It's  all  right,  'cause  it's  some- 
thing he  says."  =^^^^5'  c^^mS " V'ja  ,f.'>  ,^.:>;:T    ",• 


[•5P, 


mmmmmmm 


OUR  8TREBT. 


Dick  did  keep  straight  enough  for  awliile. 
There  was  less  temptation  for  him  now,  since  the 
door  he  daily  passed  no  longer  beckoned  him  to 
ruin.  Then,  too,  Mr.  Jenkins'  death  had  startled 
him,  and  suggested  unpleasant  thoughts  of  the 
future,  in  view  of  which  he  had  been  so  carefully 
trained. 

He  had  made  a  great  many  resolutions  to 
reform.  Alas  I  for  the  strength  of  an  unregenerate 
nature !  Wedded  by  birth  to  sin,  its  essence  is 
weakness.  It  is  only  as  man  links  himself  to 
Deity  that  he  is  strong.  The  appetite  Dick 
Perkins  had  fostered  had  grown  to  a  giant's 
Btr3ngth,  and  the  whole  rum  trade  of  the  city  had 
not  been  buried  in  Mr.  Jenkins'  grave. 

Sad,  indeed,  was  the  day  that  followed  Dick's 
first  coming  home  intoxicated  after  the  closing  of 
that  grave.  Bryony  lay  in  the  border-land  of 
"Doubting  Castle,"  and  "Giant  Despair"  had 
iron  hands  about  her  heart. 

"  It's  just  no  use,"  she  sobbed,  "  no  use  I "  Dear 
Jepus,  if  you'd  only  shut  'em  all  up,  or  take  every 


;h  for  awliilo. 
now,  hinco  the 
;koned  him  to 
th  had  startled 
loughts  of  the 
en  BO  carefully 

reHolutions  to 
m  unregenernte 
t,  ita  essence  is 
inks  himself  to 

appetite    Dick 
Q    to  a  giant's 
of  the  city  had 
grave. 

followed  Dick's 
er  the  closing  of 
J  border-lapd  of 
b  Despair"  had 

no  use!"  Dear 
ip,  or  take  every 


MB.  JBNiUKg'  KXIT. 


206 


bit  of  the  like  for  it  out  of  him  I  I  can't  do 
anything  more,  O,  I  can't  I" 

Poor  little  Dry  I  There  was  a  hard  pain  in  her 
heart,  a  strange  faintness  creeping  over  her  whole 
body.  "  I  can't  go  out  I  I  can't  do  anything  but 
wait — and  —  O,  Lord  Jesus,  it  is  so  hard  to  wai^  ' 
I'm  sick— sick  all  over  I     What  thall  I  do?" 

She  laid  her  head  wearily  against  the  cushion  of 
her  chair,  and  her  dropping  hand  hit  her  Bible. 

"  Med'cine  1 "  she  cried,  a  gleam  of  light  shoot- 
ing across  her  face,  and  she  opened  the  book. 

"  When*  the  enemy  shall  come  in  like  a  flood." 
What  sent  that  passage  through  her  mind  just 
then  ?  "  Yes,  rum's  the  enemy,  and  it's  a  flood, 
sure;  but  —  but  — I'm  God's  folks.  I'll  find  it, 
'cause  I  can't  'member  the  rest.  It's  in  I^iah, 
I'm  sure."      >■  '  v  ''  «  '  - 

But  she  didn't  find  it.  How  a  verse  will  evade 
as  sometimes  I  She  got  another,  instead:  ''I 
have  seen  his  ways,  and  will  heal  him :  I  will  lead 
him  also,  and  restore  comforts  unto  him  and  to  his 


M. 


m 


' 


i 


"i 


mourners.' 


:•,; .,: 


:r — 


v^: 


206 


OUB  BTBXSET. 


m 


«»01"     Bryony  read  it  over  and  over,  with 
dewy  eyes,  and  eager,  thirsty  lips.         «  ^    ,    -.-    , 

"That's  new!"  she  said.  "It  was  never  here 
before.  He  sent  it  just  for  me,  and  it's  true  1 
How  good  he  is  1 "  And  again  the  head  drooped, 
and  the  weary  eyes,  sleepless  the  night  before, 
closed  in  refreshmg  slumber.  "He  giveth  his 
beloved  sleep."     r       >■ "'      -P        '    v 

An  hour  after.  Dr.  Fosby,  coming  in,  found  her 
thus.    He  sat  a  Uttl<^  while  gazing  upon  the  thin» 

.  .  .—     ■:  '■■  ■■ ..-:    >':;".■;  '■'■■■■'■'    -'-i.'"  -^^i^ 
pale  face. 

"She's  growing  weaker,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't 
understand  it.  I'm  sure  I've  hit  the  right  remedy. 
I  believe  she  thinks  too  much,"  noticing  the  Bible. 
"There's  something  on  her  mind,  that's  certain. 
She's  too  young  to  read  such  a  book;"  and  he 
stooped  and  gently  sought  to  remove  it  from  her 

grasp. 

Not  possible.    The  eyeUds  unclosed  at  the  first 
attempt.     She  smiled  as  she  recognized  her  old 

friend. 
"How  do  you  feel  this  morning?"  he  asked. 


n 


s^it^'^^^-!  t*l*#fc«»^' 


„,;^*w.»«ii*w«»«a' 


^ti  ifXSM^.    •»»' '  • 


and  over,  with 

,s.  '•  ',  -'H'— 
was  never  here 
,  and  it's  true  I 
B  head  drooped, 
je  night  before, 
"He  giveth  his 

ng  in,  found  her 
ig  upon  the  thin^ 

r--J  ,;•,:••■:   -'-i-  -^.ftP. 

id,  '*  and  I  don't 
the  right  remedy, 
loticing  the  Bible, 
nd,  that's  certain. 
I  book ; "  and  he 
oaove  it  from  her 

iclosed  at  tlie  first 
ecognized  her  old 

rning?"  he  asked. 


T 


m 


^^fiw^^fw^ 


^^^  "WT''^^V*i.'iie,*lt^»?P  * 


MB.  JSNKms'  EXIT. 


9Slk 


tigttlhy  ■ 


cheerily.  "I  had  a  few  moments  to  spare,  and 
thought  I'd  drop  in.  Have  you  any  medicine  for 
me,  Bryony?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  but 
God  has  lots.    I'm  a&aid  my  med'cine  isn't  worth 
much.    But  he  gave  me  the  best  I  ever  had  this 
morning.    I  was  very  sick;  'most  gone."        .„.; 
"'Most  gone?"  questioningly.      . ,;,  i.   h^:.-f.:'l-H 
"Yes.    The  pain  was  all  here,''  laying  her  hand 
on  her  heart.    "But  A«  said  —  the  big  God,  who 
can't  lie,  you  know  — '  I  will  heal  him,  and  restore 
comforts  unto  him'  —  that's  Dick — 'and  to  his 
mourners' — that's  me.      God's   comfort    is    «o 
comfortable!  "    r^.-;   .,!>-^v-m  o-a  c-ajii-j  {5;s&  ovi.vt^r  ;. 
"  I'm  afraid  you'll  go  altogether,  some  of  these 
days,  if  you  read  and  think  so  much,"  said  the 
doctor.     ;■  ^"  i'-|  vj^isr  ^:^  ^}i^g:fi!^:-rt^'r'rW'iK.^  Xyr't-^^^t^ 
But  Bry  did  not  seem  to  hear.  -,  ^    i*^ 

"  Tou  never  gave  sick-makers  —  rum  to  folks, 
when  they  were  sick,  doctor?"  she  asked,  sud- 
denly, -v'-:^  ■*■:'» -.T   --  '•■'■'' 

The  good  gentleman  seemed  a  little  startled, 


MiHiMi 


i^ 


208 


OUB  BTBBBT. 


a" 


perhaps  by  the  suddeuness  of  the  question,  but  he 
laughed  as  he  said:  "What  next,  you  morsel? 
What  pvrt  that  into  your  head?"     :%j^     ;  tifs 
The  child  was  looking  at  him  with  very  grave 
eyes,  and  he  was  not  exactly  comfortable  under 

«  That's  the  way  father  first  took  to  drink,"  she 
said,  soberly.  "  The  doctor  ordered  it  once  when 
he  was  sick,  and  he  liked  it  better  and  better, 
until  he  forgot  to  ome  home  one  night,  and  froze 
in  the  streets,  and -and  that's  the  reason  Dick 
likes  it,  'cause  fother  did."  -^  i  ?       v 

There  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  then  the  doctor 
said,  a  little  warmly,  as  if  defending  himself: 
«  Perhaps  your  father  would  have  died  if  his  phy- 
sician hadn't  ordered  whisky.  A  doctor  is 
expected  to  cure  his  patients."  •     .  >,  w* 

«But  he  didn't  cure  him,  sir.    The  med'cine 

killed  him."  '~      "    '*  -S   "    "   ^■^' 

Dr.  Fosby  looked  annoyed.  '   ,-      t 

"He  didn't  die  at  once,  did  he?" 
«  No,  sir.    But  wouldn't  it  have  been  better  if 


T 


MMUMUtWUtiMiiM 


question,  but  he 
xt,  you  morsel? 

with  very  grave 
>mfortable  under 

.ok  to  drink,"  she 
sred  it  once  when 
)etter  and  better, 
B  night,  and  froze 
the  reason  Dick 

t,  then  the  doctor 
efending  himself: 
ve  died  if  his  phy- 
f.      A    doctor    is 

nr.    The  med'cine 


I  he?" 

bave  been  better  if 


T 


MB.  JBKKIKS    EXIT. 


209 


he  had  ?  Then  it  would  only  have  killed  one  man, 
the  outside  one ;  but  it  killed  both,  the  one  in- 
side as  well  as  the  one  outside,  and  —  and  then 
there's  Dick,  you  know.  He  wouldn't  have 
known  anything  about  it ;  he'd  'a'  been  in  heaven, 
yet,  a  sweet  little  baby."  , 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  flickered  for  a  moment 
on  the  doctor's  face.      *'f*-  '"'^        .;,-..,,-.-, 

"You  think  too  much,  Bry,"  he  said.  "You 
can't  understand  these  things."      '■  ^^\^^',':-'^^  -■•;'^ , 

"  But  God  does,  please,  sir,  and  he  says :  '  Woe 
unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink.'  Isn't  it 
as  bad  to  tell  'em  they  must  take  it  —  everybody 
minds  doctors — and  —  and  I  get  puzzled,  some- 
times, to  know  who  God  thinks  is  to  blame,  father 
and  Dick,  or  the  doctor,  or  the  men  who  sell  it. 
If  they  didn't  love  it  they  wouldn't  buy  it,  and  so 
no  one  would  sell  it;  and  if  the  doctor  hadn't 
ordered  it  for  father  he  wouldn't  have  liked  it. 
God  sent  doctors  to  make  folks  well — to  give  'em 
med'cine.  And  that  isn't  med'cine ;  it's  always 
sick-makers,  and  it  kills  'em  afterwards,  kills  'em 
clear  through,  so  God  can't  make  'em  well." 


i<."^'- 

M 


•MM 


Dr.  Fosby  said  little  more.    He  had  taken  as 
large  a  dose  as  he  needed  this,  morning.    He  left 
a  few  powders,  and  inquired,  in  a  hesitating  so.t 
of  way,  of  Edward  Parker's  famUy.      .^^^^i^^  >« 
"They're  all  well,  and-0,  you'll  be  so  glad  I 
He  isn't  going  to  drink  any  more  1    Some  doctor 
told  him  to  take  it  for  his  heart,  and  he  begMi  to 
love  it;   but  he's  stopped." 

The  little  enthusiastic  eyes  were  shining  up  to 
Dr.  Fosby's,  but  they  did  not  detect  his  added 
color.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  he  was  very  glad  I "  and 
Bry  smUed.  And  he  was  glad-more,  relieved. 
He  had  seen  the  young  man  stagger  several  times, 
and  knew  who  ordered  the  whisky. 

Itwas  strange  how  the  child's  arguments  hung 
to  him  that  day.  Strange  that  an  old  Bible  verse, 
learned  at  his  mother's  knee  years  ago,  followed 
him  constantly:  «  Who  will  render  to  every  man 
according  to  his  deeds." 

It  is  certain  he  muttered  some  queer  things  in 
his  study  that  night,  such  as:  "Yes,  I've  pre- 
scribed a  good  deal  of  it.    No,  I  don't  beUeve  it 


e  had  taken  as 
orning.  He  left 
a  hesitating  soift 
lily.  ^'ffiMii'-j^: 
[)u'll  be  BO  gladl 
el  Some  doctor 
and  he  began  to 

jre  shining  up  to 
detect  his  added 
i  very  glad  I "  and 
— more,  relieved, 
gger  several  times, 
liisky.         '     '       " 
's  arguments  hung 
an  old  Bible  verse, 
rears  ago,  followed 
nder  to  every  man 

me  queer  things  in 
w:  "Yes,  I've  pre- 
[),  I  don't  believe  it 


.  ,^,^  *•■*',.  -v-^*^,  VI-  fv  v  ■■; 


CHAPTER  Xin. 


.;:  f..i'./^ 


r- 


VHAT  SLEW  THE  DBAGON. 

^<^UR  city  was  in  a  ferment.  Our  Street 
\J  shared  it.  A  religious  interest  in  the  city 
had  led  to  an  urgent  invitation  to  the  Rev.  Her- 
bert  Gardenell  to  visit  it,  and  he  had  consented. 
The  city  hall  was  to  be  used  for  the  services,  a 
great  chorus  choir  had  been  organized,  and  Mrs. 
Gardenell's  singing,  much  praised  by  all  who  had 

heard  hex,  and  wonderfully  used  of  God,  was  a 

chief  feature  of  attraction. 

i  Little  Bryony  had  heard  all  this  through  Le^-ty 

Sawyer,  and,  always  interested  in  Mr.  Gardenell, 

she  longed  excessively  to  hear  him. 

.  The  afternoon  before  the  first  meeting  waa  cold 

212       "  ■   -■''-:.'■  v :'-'■,:':  -r 


\*     A 


..iBaMKSieeKWw*""*^- 


wm 


mmm 


Wb, 


'rt 


I. 


lAGOK. 


3nt.      Our  Street 
iterest  in  the  city 
to  the  Rev.  Her- 
Le  had  consented, 
for  the  services,  a 
rganized,  and  Mrs. 
sed  by  all  who  had 
sed  of  God,  was  a 

this  through  Le'ity 
I  in  Mr.  Gardenell, 
IX  him. 
St  meeting  was  cold 


WHAT  8LB"W  THB  DRAGON. 


218 


and  windy,  as  March  days  are  apt  to  be;  but 
Widow  Grafham,  at  her  shop  window,  noticed 
two  strangers  across  the  street. 

"  Letty,  did  you  ever  see  a  nobler-looking  man  ? 
So  broad  and  grand  1"  exclaimed  the  old  lady, 
who  had  a  weakness  in  the  direction  of  well- 
developed  manhood.    jliSll-^iiiyn  a      >         ' 

Letty's  answer  was  somewhat  from  the  point. 
"That's  the  most  beautiful  lady  I  ever  saw  I 
Mother,  I'm  sure  that's  Mr.  Gardenell  and  his 
wife.  They  are  coming  over  here  I  O,  I'm  so 
glad  I  Open  the  door,  mother.**  »VfX^  ■*»?;# 
■Indeed,  the  two  were  crossing  directly  before 
the  widow's  establishment,  and  were  soon  com- 
fortably seated  in  the  wee  room  behind  the  cur- 


tain. 


'^„'i^;-^:.,iAA 


'♦  My  wife  is  a  little  weary,"said  the  gentleman 
apologetically,  and  soon  he  was  gathering,  in  a 
very  unobtrusive  way,  a  g^eat  deal  of  intelligence 
about  the  inhabitants  of  that  locality.  He 
repeated  the  names  of  the  dealers  as  if  trying  to 
fasten  them  in  his  memory,  and  inquired  about  the 


i 


ilH 


iiiii 


214  ^^^     OUB  BTBCTT.     "^A-^'*' 

factory  bolow.     MeanwhUe  Letiy  waa  studying 
shyly  the  beautiful  face  of  the  lady.         <><«^  ^^^ 
"You  say  Mr.  Hudworth  keeps  the  periodical 
shop  just  across  f 

"  Yes,  sir.    And  he's  my  son  Gregory.    He  is  a 
professor  of  religion,  but  is  very  cold  of  late. 
I'm  in  hopes  he'll  attend  some  of  your  meetings, 
sir,  and  get  good.    Indeed,  we  all  need  them. 
Excuse  me,  sir;  you  haven't  spoken  your  name, 
but  Letty  generally  hits  things  right,  and  as  soon 
as  she  saw  you  coming  she  said  it  was  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Gardenell.'* 
The  gentleman  smiled  up  into  Letty's  blushing 

face. 

«I  shouldn^t  wonder  if  Leiy  was  right  this 
tune,"  he  said,  and  after  a  little  more  talk  they  - 

arose  to  go. 

"You  might  sit  and  rest  until  your  husband 
'    returns,"  said  the   widow,   poUtely,    addressing 

the  lady. 
But  Mrs.  Gardenell,  thanking  her,  declined  the 

invitation,  ^v----^-  '"r"---':^"^-:'  ;,""'  "■"■ '  v~-^  ■"■;'■,. 


■  'A*', 


yj, 


!H,imiH.u.    ,iaw»-WiW 


.  t.  •>r' 


J  was  studying 
ady. ''     -i'*-^-^^ 
)8  tihe  periodical 

rregory.  He  is  a 
jry  cold  of  late, 
f  your  meetings, 
all  need  them, 
loken  your  name, 
ight,  and  as  soon 
i  it  was  Mr.  and 

Letty's  blushing 

,y  was  right  this 
ie  more  talk  they 

itil  your  husband 
litely,    addressing 

I  her,  declined  the 


/  _■  ■ 


WHAT  SLEW  THE  DEAGON. 


215 


"  I  saw  a  pale,  child-face  at  a  window  opposite,''^ 
she  said.    "  I  think  I  will  call  and  rest  there."      g 

♦'O,  do  I"  cried  Letty,  impulsively.    "That's 
little  Bry,  and  she'll  be  so  glad."     .yj  j^^,^  j^jj. 

The  little,  pale  face  alluded  to,  looked  inquir- 
ingly into  the  faces  of  tho  strangers,  as  its  owner 
answered  their  rap.  But  she  answered  eagerly, 
to  the  lady's  question,  "May  I  come  in  a  while 
and  sit  with  you?"  "O  yes,  that'll  be  so 
comfortable;"  and  her  little  crutches  wont 
sounding  through  the  hall.  So  the  gentleman 
departed,  and  his  wife  followed  Bryony  into  her 

room.  <i^'<i''-'^i$^.f^f>^mnk'iiiihmH'»^m^  ■'' 

"You  had  better  take  this  chair,  it  is  more 

comfortable  than  that,"  said  Bry,  pointing  to  her 

rocker.    But  the  lady  refused  the  kind  offer.**,,..,. 

"  I  shall  be  more  comfortable  seeing  you  in  it," 

she  said. 

t  The  chUd  settled  herseH  back  at  this,  her  eyes 
literally  devouring  the  woman  before  her,  over 
the  sweet,  smiling  face,  with  its  shining  eyes  and 
ruby  lips,  and  glowing  cheeks,  the  little  ripples  of 


* 


m 


:;?..:^/,v3/&^»f^vw>:!J-.-.-«^^>A^^.'^^^'' 


Mmis^" 


chestnut  hair  lying  beside  the  Bmooth  brow ;  over 
the  dress  so  neat,  well-fitting,  becoming,  the  eyes 
wandered,  then  back  again  to  the  dark  eyes,  with 
a  long  sigh  of  satisfaction.        •  "'    - 

"I'm  juHt  right,"  smUed  Mrs.  Gardenell.    . 

"  Yes.    It  must  be  so  comfortable  to  be  you  1 

"It  is  when  I  remember  that  Jesus  loves  and 

saves  me,  and  gives  me  work  for  him.    It  isn't  so 

comfortable    when    I     remember    my    naughty 

thoughts,  quick  words,  and  neglected  work."    - 

"  O !  "  prolonged.    "  I  didn't  think  you  could 

be  naughty,  you're  so  comfortable.'" 

"And  so  human,  dear.  But  what  can  I  do, 
little  Dry,  to  make  you  comfortable  while  I  am 
here?"  Mrs.  Gardenell  had  not  lost  that  old, 
quick  way  of  catching  and  retaining  names. 

"0,  I'm  comfortable,"  with  a  little  satisfied 
look  about  her.  "Thid  room  is  smaller  than  the 
other,  and  not  quite  so  high,  but  it  keeps  warm 
easier.  Then  the  sun  comes  in  through  a  part  of 
that  window  a  Uttle  while  every  day  that  it's  out, 
and  Miss  June  sent  me  the  rose-bush.    Wasn't  she 


ooth  brow;  over 
coming,  the  eyes 
5  dark  eyes,  with 

.  Gardenell. 
ftble  to  be  you  I " 
;  JesuB  loves  and 
■  him.    It  isn't  so 
>er    my    naughty 
3glected  work." 
t  think  you  could 
table." 

it  what  can  I  do, 
trtable  while  I  am 
not  lost  that  old, 
etaining  names. 
1  a  little  satisf  ed 
is  smaller  than  the 
but  it  keeps  warm 
I  through  a  part  of 
y  day  that  it's  out, 
y-bush.    Wasn't  she 


WHAT  SLSW  THE  DBAOON. 


217 


good?  It  don't  grow  very  well ;  that's  'cause  it's 
lonesome  for  the  other  plants  in  Miss  June's  bay- 
window  at  the  farm-house.  Of  course  it  must 
miss  'em.  But  I  found  some  med'cine  for  it  this 
morning,  and "  —  lowering  her  voice  —  "I  asked 
Jesus  to  please  not  let  it  forget  to  £p:ow,  like  I 
did."      -     ^;;  .    "v        '»   •       ; 

There  were  tears  in  her  beautiful  dark  eyes,  as 
the  lady  stretched  out  her  hand  impulsively,  and 
took  one  of  Bry's. 

"  You  are  very  comfortable  yourself,  dear,"  she 
said.        .;.„    '•■■'.'   '•'■    ■•'•  ■      "    ■      ■        ■' 

"Yes,  I  um  when  folks  are  sick  and  want 
med'cine.    I'm  Bryony  —  Bryony  Perkins."  . 

*'  And  you  know  all  about  the  great  Doctor  and 
his  medicine?"  inquired  the  lady,  tenderly. 

"  O,  yes.  I've  got  his  medicine  book,"  one  little 
hand  taking  from  its  accustomed  place  beside  her 
the  well-worn  Bible.  "That's  where  I  got  the 
rose-tree's  med'cine.  '  Consider  the  lilies,  how 
they  grow.'  I  read  it  to  it,  and  I  think  it  looks 
better  already.    Don't  you?"       ir  ^;^      i'h-^^ 


jiBiiiaiMwuii 


■cr' 


2ia 


ODB  8TBVKT. 


rffr 


Mrs.  Gardenell  only  smoothed  the  litUe  hand 
in  her  lap.    "Jesus'  little  Iambi"  she  said.      -' 

"  Yes,  that's  what  he  said.  He  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  Uttle    lambs,  and  it  came    to  me,  so    I'm 

one. 

"  Who  wrote  the  letter?' 
"Mr.  Gardenell.  You  know;  the  man  whom 
God  loves,  and  who  preaches  to  big  people  and 
little  children.  He's  coming  here  to-night  and  I 
want  to  see  and  hear  him.  The  letter  telled  all 
about  little  Violet,  and  she  said,  '  He  wUl  save 
them  n(nv,  he  saved  me  1 '  I've  been  Jesus'  lamb 
ever  since  I  heard  it." 

"And  how  long  ago  was  that,  Bryony?" 
"  O,  ever  so  long.    Mother  read  it  to  me.    That 
was  'fore  He  sent  for  her,  you  know." 
ii-r^r,  gent  for  her?" 

"Jesus.  He  sent  angels.  I  didn't  see  them, 
but  I  knew  when  they  came.  They  didn't  take 
all  of  her  at  once,  only  the  speak,  and  see,  and 
kiss ;  but  I  'spect  she's  all  there  now,  and  "— Bry 
always  said   this  with    a   little  dry  half-sob  — 


it«»iS(*Sw»&«!*****®''' 


3d  the  little  hand 
)!'*  Bhe  said.        ' 

0  wrote  a  letter  to 
)    to  me,  80   I'm 

' ;  the  man  whom 
to  big  people  and 
ere  to-night  and  I 
ae  letter  telled  all 
said,  '  He  will  save 
i  been  Jeaus'  lamb 

hat,  Bryony?"   ' 
read  it  to  me.    That 
^ou  know." 

1  didn't  see  them, 
1.  They  didn't  take 
speak,  and  see,  and 
)re  now,  and  " — Bry 
ittle  dry  half-sob  — 


mm 


fST^ 


WHAT  SLBW  THK  DRAOOX. 


219 


**  p'r'aps  he'll  send  for  me  when  Dick  gets  well, 
and  don't  need'med'cine  any  more ;  but  I'm  afrnid 
he's  getting  worser."     sJ-S'f  '•     '  ';'•'»'  ;">' 

Little  Bry  and  her  companion  did  not  know 
theiv>  was  a  third  party  in  the  room.  But  Mr. 
Gardenell,  finding  his  knock  unheeded,  had  fol- 
lowed the  voices  to  the  apartment,  and  stood 
listening  to  the  last  of  this.     ''      '^'^  .  ^  -  ■^' 

He  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  rocker  now,  and, 
lifting  the  child  to  his  arms,  drew  her  head  to  his 
broad  bosom.    '■■'••  i''''^  ^*"'   -•!  n'-^' •'    t:--\.i    ^■v.^'^f- 

"Who  ifl  Dick,  little  Bry?"  he  asked.  '* 

There  was  one  swift,  upward  glance  from  those 
little  eyes,  a  timid,  questioning  look,  that  seemed 
to  meet  its  answer  in  the  face  above.  She  smiled 
back  to  his  tender  smile,  and  answered :  "  Please, 
sir,  Dick  is  my  daily  bread."  -  *  "^  '■•"  '     " 

The  gentleman  seemed  to  understand.  "And 
now  ho  is  too  ill  to  earn  it  ? "  he  asked,  gently. 

•♦♦O,  nol"  Another  rapid,  upward  glance. 
"But — but  he  spends  it  for  —  for — sick-makers 
—  whi-whi-whisky  I "  fairly  gasped  the  child,  a 


\.^-/^ 


K^'ttUluiSiM^''    *-*f^»"-"-'. 


mm 


^iMMMI 


220 


OtJB  STEBBT. 


Bhiver  shaking  her  slight  frame  as  that  word,  for 
the  first  time,  escaped  her  lips.    -My  med'cme 
isn't  big  enough  for  him  now.    Jesus  shut  up  Mr. 
Jenkins'  saloon,  but  he  goes  somewhere  else.    I'm 
'most  'scouraged,  though  mother  told  me  not  to 
be.    She  said, 'There's  nothing  too  hard  for  God.' 
I  s'posed  he  wanted  me  to  help  him  a  little,  sir, 
and  so  he  left  me  when  he  took  mother,  and  I've  . 
tried;  but -but  it's  no  usel"    And  really,  oxir 
brave  little  Bry  was  hiding  tears  on  Mr.  Garde- 

nell's  coat. 

It  might  have  been  the  soothing  touches  of  his 
gentle  hand  that  made  Uxem  flow  so  freely,  noesibly 
the  tightening  of  his  loving  arms  about  her  frame, 
or  the  tenderness  of  his  voice. 

"O,  yes,  it   is    use.      Jesus   can    save   him, 

Bry." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  bravely,  and  looked  up. 
"It  11  take  the  whole  of  him  to  do  it.    You  don't 
begin  to  know  how  bad  he«  got  it,  sir." 
..«  No.    But  he  knows,  and  he  ikJ  able.    It  takes 
the  whole  of  Jesus  to  save  any  sinner,  it  did  to 


•smsprrsrrr? 


r^^jn-jsi^iTsv 


s  that  word,  for 
"My  med'cine 

esus  shut  up  Mr. 

jwhere  else.    I'm 

sr  told  me  not  to 

too  hard  for  God.' 
him  a  little,  sir, 

mother,  and  I've 
And  really,  our 

X8  on  Mr.  Garde- 

ng  touches  of  his 
r  80  freely,  loesibly 
18  about  her  frame, 


LS 


can    save   him, 


[y,  and  looked  up. 
,  do  it.    You  don't 

got  it,  sir." 
le  ikJ  able.    It  takes 
ny  sinner,  it  did  to 


mm^mmmmmimmiiimimiiii^. 


VnULT  BLSW  THB  DBAGON.  221 

save  you  and  me.  But  he  wiU  save  Dick,  and 
save  the  whole  of  him."  ,  .r-.-,,~..---,f.i;;~ur-:T--:-'--  •! 
"  O,  how  comfortable  that  is  I "  There  was  not 
a  particle  of  doubt  in  little  Bry's  voice  —  it  bub- 
bled over  with  its  joy.  "  When  will  he  do  it, 
please?"     ■mi;.v^'^''-vf,  ,•■'*;.•  »-:yj-:r  ■■_■■  ::-\i    ■--,'■ 

"When  we  ask  and  believe.  He  says,  in  his 
book,  '  Now  is  the  accepted  time.'  Shall  we  ask 
him  now?"      f:...'   '"'  m--K:M'^  -^-r-  ^y::''^--- ^:.■'i      '^ '■./■] 

How  wonderful  it  was  to  have  prayer  breathed 
above  her  head  1  to  hear  God  talked  to  so  famil- 
iarly, yet  so  reverently.  The  first  words  that 
burst  from  those  little  lips  were:    jsi  r;     ? :  - 

"It  must  be  'most  as  comfortable  to  be  you  as 
to  be  Mr.  Gardeuell,  sir.  Did  yea  ever  hear  the 
lady  singi  '     -:'-  '-    •  ?       .  -       ;  * 

"Yes,"  smiling.  '-C 

"And  him  preach?"      -  ■    '  ,4^        ??! 

>  "Yes."  .'--^r  v'i^>  *f  -.m-^'^-i- ,4y,H-  •^.t-:',.{r-fv-^--- 

"  I  thought  you  must.    He's  very  good,  sir  ?  " 

"  Ho  might  be  improved,  but  he  means  to  do 
right."       A-  vr^x^'-:/  .>*^  b:''-r.t%r'i^lr- .  ,,  -^M,,, 


Kv^'^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 


iwiiinniiaiii 


tmk<4 


222 


v'j-y- 


OUB  BTBIEBST.  ivili"? 


jV« 


v> 


-(*     1<'-1> 


'-))»-\ 


"Do  you  think  he  could  help  Dick?" 
mK  God  would  help  him  to.' 
»'0,  yes  I  it's  all  God." 
"All  God,  but  he  uses  men  sorietimes.** 
" I  hope  he'U  use  him  or  you,  sir     P'r'aps  hell 
go   to   the   meetings,   if    the   hidy's   going   to 

sing."      =     ---uu  .F   ^^'^   ^^^'   '-^'*«  '    -''^''-''^ 
"She  is."         --^  "-^'  ''''''■    '  •"''  "-'-'   '-i'"-^- 
"01"  deUght  and  longing  unspeakable  in  face 
and  voice,  "I'll  tell  him  1"       m-An.^'sri  c^ 

Then  the  lady's  gentle  hand  was  laid  for  a 
moment  on  her  husband's  arm.     ^   -*  ^^s^    - 

"Herbert,  little  Bry  can  go  to-night,  I  know, 
if  you  send  a  carriage  for  her."     -  -     ^  l  >a  i^ux 
"Then  littie  Bry  shall  go,  Ennie."  ^  --- 

Little  Bry  heard,  but  her  tongue  failed  her 
utterly;  even  her  old  stand-by,  "comfortable," 
forgot  to  appear.  There  was  a  terrible  some- 
thing in  her  throat  which  would  not  up  at  her 
cough,  and  her  eyes  felt  strangely.  She  turned 
away  her  head  and  winked  fast,  fearful  that  again 
she  should  surrender  to  tears. 


-  r 


)  Dick?'*       I    'J 

w5-¥  st»Ki  Mm  A   ;■"-'■ 
soraetimes. 
sir     PYaps  he'll 
lady's    going   to 

ispeakable  in  face 

id  was  laid  for  a 

)  to-night,  I  know, 

Ennie."   -^««;' «.«^:S' ■.-.^ 
tongue  failed  her  :. 
by,  "comfortable," 
ts  a  terrible  some- 
juld  not  up  at  her 
^ngely.    She  turned 
jt,  fearful  that  again 


^ 


iMM 


WHAT  SLEW  THE  DBAGON. 


228 


Bryony  followed  the  two  forms  with  her  eyes  as 
long  as  they  were  in  sight,  and  sighed  when  they 
faded  from  view. 

"  Them  must  be  God-kisses,"  she  said  —  for  she 
was  full  of  strange  fancies— "like  those  Adam 
and  Eve  learned  in  the  garden  before  they 
sinned;"  and  she  put  up  one  thin  hand  and 
patted  the  cheek  they  had  pressed,  much  as  if 
she  thought  by  so  doing  she  caressed  them. 

No  amount  of  coaxing  would  induce  Dick  to 
accompany  his  sister  that  evening,  but  she  was 
ready  when  the  hack  appeared. 

Mrs.  Ezekiels  had  been  pressed  into  service, 
and  had  hunted  up  a  hood  which  fitted  Bry  better 
than  her  mother's,  and  also  an  extra  shawl. 
i  The  hall  was  lighted  brilliantly.  The  vestibule 
was  one  blaze  of  light,  and  the  post-lamps  made 
all  those  about  the  sidewalk  plainly  visible.  Bry, 
unused  to  such  sights,  looked  from  the  coach 
wmdow,  forgetful  of  pain,  her  heart  throbbing 
with  joy.  '  'm--'f]^^wi. 

It  was  not  the  driver's  hand  that  opened  the 


i^ilaWiWW.WM***'**'***' ' 


illiiiiiiiiiiU'iiiwiiiiiiiii 


mmr- 


,?«:0?.- ■  OUB  8TEBET.  r*?Tl?' 

hack  door,  or  his  &oe  that  met  Bryony's ;  but  0 1 
Buch  a  radiantly  handsome  one,  with  its  glowing 
complexion,  brilliant  black  eyes,  white  teeth  and 
cnrling  hair.    It  was  Eddie  Campbell,  and,  as  the 
lamp-light  fell  full  upon  him,  Bry  gave  a  Uttle  cry 
of  admiration.     Yes,  Eddie  inherited  all  of  hw 
father's  perilous  beauty,  as  well  as  his  tender 
heart,  fascinating    manners    and   musical  voice. 
Little  Bry  yielded  her  heart  to  him  that  first 
moment  as  naturally  as  the  flower  opens  its  breast 
to  tlie    sun.      How    fraught  with    danger    and 
responsibiUty  is  this  power  to  win  hearts!     nil 
».Thifi  is  Uttle  Bryony?     Uncle  Herbert  sent 
me  to  care  for  you.    And  Dick  did  not  comel" 
disappointedly.      "No  matter;  my  arms  are  as 
strong  as  his,"  lifting  her  gently;  "and  after  I 
have  found  you  a  nice  seat,  I  will  go  and  hunt  for 
him.    Do  you  know  where  I  shall  find  him?" 
..  Little  Bry  was  nestling  to  his  bosom  as  if  it 
^as  her  natural  resting-place,  as  she  whispered: 
«No,  but  Jesus  does,  and  I'll  ask  him  to  show 


ryony's ;  but  O I 
inth  it8  glowing 
white  teeth  and 
)bell,  and,  as  the 
r  gave  a  little  cry 
lerited  all  of  his 
ill  as  his  tender 
i   musical  voice, 
to  him  that  first 
sr  opens  its  breast 
ifith    danger    and 
win  hearts!      M 
ncle  Herbert  sent 
k  did  not  comel" 
J  my  arms  are  as 
itly;  "and  after  I 
ill  go  and  hunt  for 
shall  find  him?" 
his  bosom  as  if  it 
as  she  whispered: 
1  ask  him  to  show 


WHAT  SliEW  THE  DSAGON. 


226 


•♦Whyl  80  he  can;  and  you  are  just  what 
mamma  said,  and  I  love  you  already."  «.i^>,^-«, 
V  Letty  Sawyer  opened  her  pretty  gray  eyes  as 
Bry  was  seated  by  her  handsome  escort  **  Why, 
there's  Bryl  who  is  that  with  her?"  she  whis- 
pered to  her  husband,  but  he  was  no  wiser  than 
herself.  ,-.4vi«-.i-.-<»4r^^*4. 

.«  It  was  a  night  of  marvels  to  our  little  Mend. 
ffer  gentleman  Mr.  Gardenell !  She  could  hardly 
believe  her  eyes,  and  she  could  scarcely  see  the 
lovely  singer  through  her  tears.  Then  the  text ! 
How  wonderful  that  it  should  be  her  puzzling 
verse,  "When  the  enemy  shall  come  in  like  a 
flood,"  etc.    Isa. :  59,  xix. 

s^  The  child  listened  with  a  strange,  delicious 
sense  of  comfort  creeping  over  her.  God  would 
come  to  her  rescue  at  this  climax  of  woe.  O,  a 
hard  place  looked  comfortable  to-night,  since  it 
warranted  hip*  assistance.  Bry  hardly  knew  that 
Mr.  Gardeuell's  own  hands  tucked  her  into  the 
coach,  hardly  knew  how  she  reached  home. 
The  last  by  mn  sung  by  that  wonderful  voice  was 


.iii0ft&!^sm 


mm^nmim 


ammmm 


^w 


■ifH« 


..i. 


S« 


S,- 


.viool 


OXJB  BTESKf.    MTJ^ 


,tm  echoing  in   her  soul,  «0,  who  wiU  come 

home  to-night?" 

Eddie  CampbeU    did,  indeed,  find  Dick,  yet 
Dick  did  not  attend  the  meeting.     At  a  Btreet- 
comer,  where  the  young  gentteman  was  address- 
ing  a  motley  crowd,  Dick  and  hU  companions 
halted.      Every  word  spoken  by  the    stranger 
struck  a  chord  in  the  boy's  heart,  yet  he  did  not 
accept  the  public  invitation  givon  to  attend  the 
hall  meeting,  nor  yet  the  private  one  urged  so 
,amestly  afterWards,  for  Eddie,  with  intuition, 

festened  on  mm. 

He  listened  to  his  sister's  glowing  account  with 
Uttle  apparent  interest,  confessed  he  had  seen  a 
young  man  answering  to  her  description  of  Mr. 
Campbell,  who  was  inviting  others  to  the  meet- 
iBgs,  but  did  not  tell  her  that  his  rough  refusal  to 
attend  had  turned  back  on  himself,  and  made  his 

evening  uncomfortable. 

..Next  day  Campbell  visited  Dick  at  his  work. 

His  pleasant,  famUiar  ways  won  on  tiie  boy  in 

spite  of  himself,  yet  he  sturdily  refused  to  attend 


h-  *- 


who  will  come 

find  Diclr,  yet 
ig.  At  a  street- 
aan  was  addresa- 

hU  oompanions 
ty  the  stranger 
•t,  yet  he  did  not 
von  to  attend  the 
aite  one  urged  so 
0,  with  intuition, 

leing  account  with 
jed  he  had  seen  a 
description  of  Mr. 
thers  to  the  meet- 
is  rough  refusal  to 
osel^  and  made  his 

Dick  at  his  work, 
j^on  on  the  boy  in 
y  refused  to  attend 


WHAT  SLEW  THE  DRAGON. 


22T 


the  meetings.  But  men  who  refuse  their  fellows 
do  not  always  refuse  God.  The  prayers  of  these 
f:*hnstian  workers,  and  of  little  Bry,  must  be 
answered.     Dick  wm  there  Sunday  night. 

Of  course  he  didn't  intend  to  be,  but  some  of 
the  fellows  proposed  it  for  a  change,  and,  though 
he  objected  at  first,  he  finally  yielded  when 
accused  of  squeamishness. 

'    The  arrow  was  prepared  for  his  heart,  and  a 
way  opened  for  his  obedience.    In  the  rast  crowd 
he  was  separated  from  all  hb  companions.    The 
text  was  from  Luke :  18,  xvi.    "  Ought  not  this 
woman,  being  a  daughter  of   Abraham,  whom 
Satan  hath  bound,  lo,  these  eighteen  years,  be 
loosed  from  this  bond  on  the  Sabbath  day  ?  **  ;. 
Every  word  of  the  sermon  meant  Dick,  he  wa» 
sure  of  that.     He  grew  fidgety  and  uncomfort- 
able, but  was  hedged  in  too  securely  to  get  out. 
He  tried  not  to  listen.    In  vain.    The  Spirit  of 
the  Lord  had  lifted  a  standard.    The  sweat  started 
to  his  brow  as  he  struggled  with  the  spirit  of  thp 
Almighty.      And    when    those   interested  were 


228 


♦WUt.      om  8TBBET. 


urged  to  repair  to  the  ante-room  rather  than  go 

oX  he  groaned  more  than  once.        -^W^-^^  ■ 

Yet  he  did  intend  to  go  out  immediately -he 

yet  hoped  to  escape.    It  was  that  sweet,  tender 

hymn  that  had  moved  his  sister's  soul  «,  pro- 

foundly  that  drew  him  at  last.    So  God  multiphe. 

his  agencies  to  draw  a  faltering  soul. 

u  It  must  como  sometime,"  he  said  half  aloud, 
u  He's  bound  me  long  enough.  If  I  can't  get  the 
best  of  him  now  when  I'm  young  and  gritty,  why 
I  can't,  certain,  when  I'm  old  and  weaV.  Here 
goes,  Dick  Perkins;  if  you're  man  enough  you 

can  do  it."  ,,    «    j 

For  more  than  two  hours  Dick,  with  Mr.  Garde- 
nell  and  his  wife  beside  him,  battled  the  tempter 

of  souls.  ,    ,  ,     - 

■       « I  always  knew  the  old  fellow  had  hold  of  me. 

but  I  didn't  know  it  was  such  a  death-grip,  sir," 
he  said,  at  last.    "I  tell  you,  it  seems  as  if  one 
of  us  must  die  before  we  get-through,  and  Id 
about  as  lief  die  as  give  in  now  I've  started  to 
beat  the  old  coon." 


II^I^^IISKS^^SSSSK'.'.  ?»S 


Si'it^'^i'**^'^'''"*'^'***"**"' 


>  HW 


WHAT  8LBW  THB  DBAOON. 


229 


t  rather  than  go 

e. 
mmediately— he 

tiat  Bweet,  tender 
»r'8  Boul  80  pro- 
So  God  multipliet 

g  BOUl. 

e  said  half  aloud. 
If  I  can't  get  the 
ig  and  grittv,  ^hy 
and  weaV.  Here 
man  enough  you 

5k,  with  Mr.  Garde, 
attled  the  tempter 


r  He  didn't  give  in.  That  night  a  victorious 
Christ  was  throned  in  Dick  Perkins'  heart,  and 
the  Rum  Dragon  lay  dead.  There  were  at  least 
three  hearts  in  our  city  which  heard  and  obeyed 
the  Saviour's  request,  "  Rejoice  with  ine,Ih»T« 
found  my  sheep."  ihnnhA 


I 


QW  had  hold  of  me, 
sh  a  death-grip,  sir," 

it  seems  as  if  one 
St. through,  and  I'd 

now  I've  started  to 


0-^  ijw: 


j'|-'    ,'MT.      .S>%C      ^t'i-' 


.Svy:;»  i.-:;d   S^3  tftetn; 


rf?.       .T7r.Ko»['V''»4  JIXl  V:X  M.T^  ^'1f'f-r 


ii,;..    r    \<       r-     •.  ;-  -i   'r  '  .i*J'in'4  k>  is,  ^tut  ^m^.^'^ 

''>'-■'    :         CHAPTER  XIV.  ^«i^^¥.•=e'^':>■^. 

dick's  star  m  the  ASOiNDAirP.       ^^ 

PERHAPS  1  ought  to  say  a  word  right  here 
about  our  frieiid  Jetty  Blake,  who  seems  to 
have  been  somewhat  neglected,  lately,  though  not 
intentionally.      Having  removed  to  another  por- 
tion of  the  city  she  naturally  did  not  appear  so 
often  in  Lur  Street;  especially  after  Ike  left  it, 
for  Jetty  had  a  very  tender  regard  for  Ike,  how- 
ever her  conduct  at  times  refuted  such  a  thought. 
She  had  grown  in  these  years  to  a  tall,  slender 
girl,  very  pretty  and  conceited.    She  lived  out  at 
service  now,  and  put  on  airs  and  clothes  as  nearly 
like  those  of  her  young  mistress  as  possible.    She 
dropped  in,  occasionally,  to  pay  a  visit  to  Bryony, 


ssaz  ;,««>ft^^*^2JSS'->*siM»fe.  *»(s»»o .: 


in  ':i.*rW 


BOiNDAOT.     .  ,^^^ 

a  word  right  here 
,ke,  who  seems  to 
lately,  though  not 
d  to  another  por- 
did  not  appear  so 
f  after  Ike  left  it, 
jard  for  Ike,  how- 
Bd  such  a  thought, 
ra  to  a  tall,  slender 
She  lived  out  at 
d  clothes  as  nearly 
io  as  possible.    She 
r  a  visit  to  Bryony, 


'"-■V.^ 


PICK'S  8TAB  IN  THE  ABCfEKDANT.         281 

always  inquiring  of  Ike ;  but  as  the  two  girls  had 
very  little  sympathy  of  sentiment,  her  departure 
always  gave  the  little  invalid  relief;  for  Jetty 
found  fault  and  grumbled  to  such  a  degree,  that 
her  going  was  like  the  removal  of  a  dark  cloud. 
Jetty  was  altogether  astonished  at  the  "New 
Dick "  she  had  found  upon  her  hist  visit  to  her 
crippled  friend ;  but  she  had  no  sort  of  an  idea  pf 
«what  ailed  him,"   as  she  expressed  it.      The 
Bweet  revival  influences  that  had  pervaded  the 
city  the  two  weeks  of  Mr.  Gardenell's  stay  had 
not  touched  her.    She  had  attended  one  or  two 
meetings  from  curiosity,  but  the  scene  was  incom- 
prehensible, the  preaching  Latin  and  Greek;  and 
her  only  concern  was  that  no  acquaintance  should 
see  her  there,  and  report  her  presence  to  her 
Catholic  mother.  ,  ijv?utg/^y.:r^ 

..Nevertheless,  rich  had  been  the  harvest,  and, 
among  others,  Edward  Parker  and  his  wife,  and 
EUice  Mason,  our  dressmaker,  had  been  saved. 
'    *  We  have  said  little  of  ElUce  heretofore,  but  she 
certainly  deserves  further  notice.    From  the  first 


'1^1^ 


j.s'H^^"'^^^'^^  ..'^■■-^'^'^^■^^'^■■-  "fr^fii;'*'*;-;  - 


282 


,tm;.-j 


OXTB  STBKBT.  '$. 


wi'Si 


Bhe  had  shown  a  kindly  interest  in  little  Bry  (not 
to  say  her  brother)  ;  and  as  to  Dick  Perkins,  per- 
haps  no  girl  in  the  world  had  ever  interested  him 
so  much.    The  young  man  was  scarcely  conscioui 
of  his  preference,  however,  until  after  the  new 
experience  which  came  to  both.    Several  times 
they  walked  home  from  the  hall  together  (sh© 
occupied    rooms    over   Hudworth's),  and    Dick 
began  to  look  on  her  through  new  eyes.    She  was 
a  pretty,  timid  gi'-T  of  nineteen  summers,  with  a 
modest  face  and   drooping  curls.      A  face  not 
remarkable  for  anything  in  particular,  but  very 
pretty,  all  in  all.  ^-  •---«-  ^i^^^^^i^^^-ufs 

Little  Bry  had  become  very  dear  to  Mr.  Garden 
nell  and  his  wife.     They  parted  from  her  regret-J 
fully,  but  her  sorrow  was  somewhat  modified  on 
leamirg  that  Mr.  Campbell  was  to  remain  awhile 

longer. 

Even  so.  Eddie  Campbell,  with  his  natural 
impetuosity,  had  fallen  desperately  in  love,  as  he 
supposed,  with  Ellice  Mason's  pretty  face,  and 
was  firm  in  his  resolution  to  remain  and  prosecute 


.^...r;.'" 


*t;*;iwi-'S35^w5sr' 


mmmemmmma 


•  % 


■Mk 


a  little  Bry  (not 
ick  Perkins,  per^ 
r  interested  him 
jaroely  oonscious 
I  after  the  new 
I.    Several  times 
,11  together  (she 
th's),  and    Dick 
w  eyes.    She  was 
summers,  with  a 
is.      A  face  not 
•ticular,  but  very 

bar  to  Mr.  Garde- 
from  her  regret- 

what  modified  on 
to  remain  awhile 

with  his  natural 

tely  in  love,  as  he 

pretty  face,  and 

tain  and  prosecute 


D1CK*S  BTAB  IN  THS  ASOENDAMT.  288 

his  suit.  In  vain  Mr.  Oardenell  and  his  wife 
remonstrated,  ur^ng  his  short  acquaintance ;  he 
would  not  listen  to  reason,  and  reluctantly  at  last 
they  departed  without  him.,.        r 

The  gay,  glad  boy  seemed  ve!^  liftppy  !n  hii 
new  love.  He  soon  found  a  way  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  object  of  his  regard,  and  in 
less  than  two  weeks  had  proposed  to  the  pretty 
dressmaker. . -«  "i,.,  .,^-^,.- 

Poor  Ellicel  What  could  she  say  tut  "yes"' 
to  a  ministor-to-be  ?  Of  course  she  must.  But 
she  was  k  rely  frightened  at  her  situation,  quite 
sure  she  could  never  fill  the  station  to  which  she 
seemed  called,  and  not  very  sure  that  she  loved 
the  individual  to  whom   she   had   pledged  her- 

V 

self.        :>.?«.i£i?' -«?sE'^«''*"''-'''^  i-.»-^^    •  ----.■  -  '■ 

But  Eddie  seemed  quite  happy  enough  for  two,  ■ 
and  reported  his  betrothal  to  Bryony,  together 
with  the  news  of  his  immediate  departure  to  join 
"  Uncle  Herbert "  now  that  his  object  was  con- 
summated.   It  was  not  strange  that  Bry  told  the  ^ 
whole  story  to  Dick,  as  no  stricture  had  been  laid  ■ . 


A .. 


iBJiMlAliwMWMtJWIPUIi.iillM 


284 


OUB  STBBBT." 


':!T' 


upon  her;  and  perhaps  it  was  not  strange  that 
Dick  took  tie  news  as  a  personal  insult,  and  did 
not  see  Ellice  .>fter  that  when  they  met,  a  way  of     ^ 
procedure  which  Lurt  the  maiden  sorely.?       ' 

The  next  month  was  one  of  trial  for  the  poor 
girl.  She  looked  at  Di6k  through  tearful  eyes,  ^ 
and  cried  herself  to  sleep  every  night,  yet  an- 
swered  dutifully,  as  best  she  could,  Eddie  Camp- 
bpU's  glowing  letters,  nor  noticed  that  the  ardor 
of  his  epistles  waned  continually.  Eddie  certainly 
was  not  proud  of  his  affianced's  penmanship  and 

spelling.' 

Bryony  saw  son^othing  was  wrong.    Ellice  did 
not  run  in  so  offcm  to  see  her,  looked  troubled 
when  she  did,  and  Dick's  frowning  brows,  when- 
ever the  young  girl  was  in  sight,  did  not  argue 
pleasantly.    "  Dick  never  speaks  to  mo  now,"  said 
Ellice,  through  tears,  to  Bry,  one  day.    « I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  how  I  offended  him  1 "    And  Dick 
declared  he  was  not  offended  when  Bryony  ques- 
tioned him,  but  still  he  grewdaUy  more  restless, 
and  found  himself,  one  night,  he  hardly  knew 
how,  before  EUice's  door. 


■HMMittlik 


I 


not  strange  that 
al  insult,  and  did 
hey  met,  a  way  of 
len  sorely.     *    ' 
trial  for  the  poor 
mgh  tearful  eyes, 
jry  night,  yet  an- 
mld,  Eddie  Camp- 
sd  that  the  ardor 
•.    Eddie  certainly 
s  penmanship  and 

snrong.    EUice  did 
ar,  looked  trouble  J 
?ning  brows,  when- 
ght,  did  not  argue 
ks  to  mo  now,"  said 
neday.    "I'm  sure 
himl"    And  Dick 
when  Bryony  ques- 
daily  more  restless, 
it,  he  hardly  knew 


DIOK'b  stab  in  THB  ASOBNDAITT.         286 

EUice  seemed  very  much  confused  at  seeing 
him,  blushing  and  stammering  as  she  invitejj  him 
Id,  and  offered  him  a  chair. 

"I  want  no  chair,"  he  said  sternly,  glancing 
about  the  prettily  furnished  room.  ♦♦  I  only  want 
to  know  if  you  are  engaged  to  Edward  Camp- 
bell.",,,.^.,.,,,.. 

Ellice  adfibitted  timidly  that  she  was. 

"Then  you  have  perjured  yourself — ypu  know 
you  have  1 "  he  cried,  hotly.    "  You  do  not  love 

him! "  ii,:,'ii'  !.'«.■.■■ 

"He  did  not  ask  me  if  I  loved  him  I"  soobed 

EUice.  :..s<'   i.?  f^n  «—■•', 

"Didn't  ask  you  if  you  loved  him?  Uke  the 
sap-head  I  And  you  — what  did  you  promise  to 
marry  him  for,  when  you  knew  you  loved  me  ? " 

Dick  was  very  assertive  —  seemed  very  sure  of 
his  ground.     EUice  did  not  refute  him.    ,. 

"He  asked  me  to!"  she  sobbed.  /^ 

"And  you  couldn't  say  no!"  hotly. 

"He's  a  mmister,  you  know,"  said  the  gurl, 
defensively.!*  m'^H^.**-*^-'*^.  «'^*«'"'''   >--■-'--."• 


#, 


'*•',>#.. 


'?yAa^ 


ouit  vrsxBt^rA  a'TT^a 


"And   a  man  — nothing  more,  I  reckon.    A 
minister  needs  his  wife's  love  as  much  as  mf 

other  man,  I  take  it." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her.    She  war*  peep^     . 
ing  at  him  through  her  curls.  fels*r;?:r.HC« 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  asked,  piteously.   i^'*-* 
"Write  to  him  and  teli  him  you  made  a  mis- 
take.   He  is  honorable;   he  mIU  release  you." 
^"O,  I  can't  1  and  he  a  minister!"      =^  ^^^sa; 
"Well,  don't.     Cheat  him  and  yourself  I"    -& 
Hot-headed  Dick  was  half-way    through   the 

door. 

;.  She  called  him  back. 

c  "0,  Dick  1  Dick  1  don't  be  angry  I "  she  plead. 
"Come  back  I  please  do."  .    ...     .^ 

Dick  thrust  his  head  through  the  door.       !  ?* 

"Will  you  write  tu  him?"  •        *  ** 

"O,  I  dare  not  I 

"Then  I  won't  come  back  I" 

And  he  went  down  the  stairs  and  out,  slamming 
the  door  after  hun,  and  EUice  threw  herself  upon 
the  lounge,  sobbing  hysterically. 


JKJ™ 


•e,  I  reckon.    A 
as  much  as  any 

r.    She  wa'4  peep- 

id,  piteously.      tj^ 
I  you  made  a  mis- 
iill  release  you." 
lister!"  ^^^   '. 

and  yourself  1"  i^^ 
way    through   the 

•        T-      ■     ..    '         ^   i 

ingryl"  she  plead. 

gh  the  door.       T  f  *' 

>  .  i-i. 

I"  ■' 

rs  and  out,  slamming 
s  threw  herself  upon 
illy. 


dick's  stab  in  thb  asobndakt. 


287 


Perhaps  Edward  Camphell  was  in  as  sore  a 
strait  as  Ellice  Mason.  Certain  it  is  that  ope 
month  with  her  senseless,  loveless  scrawls  Lid 
quite  cured  him  of  his  love-fever.  He  hated  to 
acknowledge  this  to  Mr.  Gardenell,  yet,  with  his 
temperament,  it  was  quite  impossible  to  keep  it 
secret.     So  one  day  it  all  came  out. 

"Dear  Uncle  Herbert,  what  shall  I  do?"  he 
asked,  sadly.  "I  dread  to  pain  the  girl.  I  do 
not  see  how  I  can  honorably  break  the  engage- 
ment, and  yet  how  can  I  marry  her? "     - 

Kind  Uncle  Herbert  did  not  tell  hun  then  tiiaf 
these  considerations  should  have  been  weighed 
before  his  entanglement;  he  said  simply,  "Go 
have  a  talk  with  mamma,  Eddie ;  I  think  she  can 
help  you."  *^.a. 

It  proved  a  long  talk,  from  which  the  young 
man  came  out  with  a  sober  face,  and  red  eyes. 
He  went  immediately  to  his  uncle's  side,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  his  arm.  "| 

"  Uncle,  dear  uncle,  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  Ms 
voice  trembling  with  emotion.    "  It  has  been  hard 


L.xU'i!M'teWl'«IWil"l'i''""''W^I'ii'*'''''''''"'"''''"'''''  '""^""'' -"■^"- 


,•,...„.# 


288 


m%^' 


OTJB  8TBKBW. 


atn  decided;  there  is  but  one  Hung  left  for  me  to 
,  do.    Give  me  your  blessing,  your  prayer..    Mine 
is  a  hard  task.    If  I  bad  but  heeded  your  adrxce. 
Bhe  might  have  been  spared  thi*  pam.» 

uyou  do  not  go  to-night,  my  boy  ? "  tenderly. 

"  Yes,  uncle.     I  dare  not  delay." 
**ThenGo.gowithyou-~andhewilll    Right 
is  God's  side.    It  wiU  be  better  for  her  inthe  end. 

be  sure." 


.       .       •       ..       • 

It  was  a  troubled  foca  that  appeared  at  EUlce 
Mason's  door  the  night  after  this  conversation. 
A  handsome,  but  distressed  face,  whose  pain  was 
not  relieved  by  noticing  i^e  teaces  of  tears  on  her 
face,  for  he  remembered  an  unanswered  tetter  m 

ms  pocket.  ' 

Ellice  set  him  a  chair,  but  the  young  man  did 
not  sit  down.    He  must  speak  at  once. 

« Ellice,  poor  child,"  he  said  excitedly,  "  you 

'  have  been  weeping,  and  I  fear  I  will  but  add  to 

your  sorrow;  but  beUeve  me,  not  wiUingly.    l^ 


(■J  iW 


ay  for  you,  but  I 
ng  left  for  me  to 
X  prayers.  Mine 
sded  your  »dvice, 
[jib  pain." 
boy?"  tenderly. 

elay." 

id  he  Willi    Right 

for  her  in  the  end, 

,        .  •  .'.  -A 

♦    -"   •       ♦  ' 
appeared  at  EUlce  > 
this  conversation, 
oe,  whose  pain  was 
ices  of  tears  on  her 
lanswered  letter  in 

the  young  man  did 
ak  at  once, 
aid  excitedly,  "yott 
tr  I  will  but  add  to 
),  not  willingly.    !»• 


diok's  stab  js  the  ascendant. 


•289 


deed,  I  hate  myself.  I  would  rathax  saffvanf 
tortosft  tten  Brake  this  confession,  if  I  were  not 
sure  that  by  withholding  it  I  should  wrong  you. 
I  have  made  a  mistake,  Ellioe.  I  fear  I  do  not 
love  you  enough  to  make  you  happy  as  my 
wife  —  " 

She  was  looking  at  him  through  lai^,  aston- 
ished eyes,  comprehending  never  a  word  until  he 
reached  that  last  sentence.  A  gleam  of  light 
passed  over  her  face.  .a; 

"Can  you— wiU  you  rolease  me,  ElUce?" 

"  O,  Mr.  Campbell  1  do  you  mean  it !  I  am  so 
gladl"  .         , 

Did  EdcUe  quite  understand  ?  Was  she  as  glad 
to  break  her  chains  as  he  himself?  She,  th« 
thought  of  whose  sorrow  had  tortured  him  almost 
beyond  bearance  I  O  maal  strange  man  I  Ed- 
ward Campbell  was  surely  most  glad  to  know  he 
had  not  power  to  wound  tlus  young  heart,  yet 
there  was  something  that  clouded  his  handsome 
face  as  he  talked  back  to  the  depot. 

Bryony  was  informed,  quite    early  the  next 


"4 


II 


240 


OTJB  BTBBKT. 


Momtog.  by  the  me  a«»«.k.r  !..«.«.*«* 
A.  w«n-t  going  to  n-ny  Mr.  CuopboU,  ^ 

tl\.  \    , 

Bty  w»  yery  -»»ol'  •»»<>''»»'•*• 
..Why.  EUioo.  I  hope  you  h«e.'t  hmt  hi. 
feeling.1     He  told  ».  h.  loved  youl"        ^_ 
»Y...buth,».de.»>i..»J'e'    ««-*"•„ 
» And  did  you  make  .  uJ»t.t,,  too,  Elhee  ? 
..Quo  I    I  never  loved  him,  and  I  never  Bid  I 
,  „  ,      .  _:,..  "«'.'«TftW  *■ 

*mo  UtU.  «.n«tie«  w«  looking  out  of  her 
^dow  that  evening,  not  watching  for  Dick,  of 
eonree,  but  he  B.W  her,  and  emiled.  ^^ 

..May  I  oome   up?"    he   ventured,  and  rix 
^4ed  .«.nt,  and  WudM^  -  ■!»  "f""^  *• 

door  to  him. 

«WeU,  'aUthingB  work  together  for  good. 

Se  never  makea  mistakes;'  sighed  Bryony,  when, 
a  few  days  Uter.  Ellice  whispered,  "I'm  goxug  to 
\M  your  own  sister.  Bryony  I"  '       > 


;M^Hii&fiM 


>^!^gte.ii«i^4&..'"  ■-'■ 


> , — t,.^..,^...J 


'^i^mm^Mio 


:M 


aker  herself,  that 
..  Campbell,  after 

bed. 
haven't  burt  his 

fed  youl" 
kel    He  said  so." 
takfl,  too,  Ellice?" 
,  and  I  never  said  I 

looking  out  of  her 
rtcbing  for  Dick,  of 
smiled.  3 

ventured,  and   she 
as  she  opened  the 


.i-.:-'5'    ■■    ■       '.y:  '  Xi^rX^n 


:  together  for  good.' 
igbed  Bryony,  when, 
pered,  "I'm  going  to 


r 


St''9~ 


a'^ll 


:,.-*:- 


ANOTHER  year  had   nearly  passed   away^ 
and  again  autumn  days  were  tinged  with 
winter  frost:    but  few  were  %e  alterations  on 
Our  Street,    ''^'^tj"'^"*','.^'''*'*^^*"  ''^»^*-.;3-*'i*  '•~^^:, *'^'-••*'^*f''^  - 
'  TIaere  had  been  "  happenin's,"  as  old  l^urse 
Adams  would  have  said,  but  they  did  not  much 
change  the  current  of  affairs.     Indeed,  did  you 
ever  think  how  little  does  anything?    The  death 
of  a  ohild,  the  anguish  of  a  broken  heart,  the 
failure  of  a  life-work,  but  ripple  the  surface  of 
life's  sea ;  and  those  whose  lives  have  been  most 
abundant  and  fruitful,  but  cause  in  death  a  few 
exclamations,  the  cessation  of  an  hour  or  two'i 

241 


'  :>l^JV^'  r  'i'-  ':  j!-^V-ii^'^y- 


■  ^ammmmia^i 


-:sijjife*»aa**ii»asfe«5 


OUB  STBKBT. 


\m 


—  possibly  twenty 
and  then  the  tic 
renewed  velocity 


-four  — a  dropping  sigh  or 

tide  of  life  rushes  on  again 

if  to  make  up  for  the 


as 


*1'    (i,«if   ni\ 


242 

work 
tear, 
with 

break. 

.     Yet  God  notes  when  a  sparrow-wing  flutters, 

"cares  when  a  chUd  sighs,  in  his  greatness  gathers 

up  our  Uttleneases,  and    sympathizes    with   our 

faintest  pang.    Would  that  humanity  might  learn 
the  secret  of  teue  greatness  -  buiJen-beanng..« 

,.    And  God,  by  his  Spirit,  had  been    brooding 

over  Our  Street. 

In  Bryony's  home  and  heart  reigued  peace 
^unspeakable,  since  Dick  was  saved.  A  faith 
unshaken  in  "He  says  .o."  Juniper  Hargreave 
came  often  to  sit  at  her  feet,  and  the  rose-bush  had 
several  companions.  Then,  too,  Bryony  had 
spent  a  day  at  the  marveUous  farm-house,  a  day  m 
the  warm,  bright  auinmer  time,  a  day  never  to  be 

forgotten,   vs^^^^ 

..,Letty  3awy.i'  had  another  little  one  given  to 
'her  arms,  a  Uttle  girl ;  -ad,  fruU  yat  ^  though  the 

baby  was  six  monfi..  old  bo  '  -«he  c»m§  ofteu  to 


■  a  dropping  sigh  or 
!e  rushes  on  again    4 
o  make  up  for  the 

arrow-wing  flutters, 
is  greatness  gathers 
npathizes  with  our 
umanity  might  learn 
—  buiuen-beariug. 
had  been    brooding 

leart  reigued  peace 
iras  saved.  A  faith 
Juniper  Hargreave 
and  the  rose-bush  had 
n,  too,  Bryony  had 
is  farm-house,  a  day  in 
ime,  a  ^J  never  to  be 

ler  little  one  given  to 
jErail  vat  —  though  the 
^vz-fr-iibfi  c*in§  often  to 


LBTTT.-l^ 


mm 


talk  with  the  little  crfpple,  whose  words  were 
always  full  of  hope  and  comfort.:  for  bright, 
light-hearted  Letty  was  rather  despondent. 

Ike  had  been  given  his  opportunity  to  learn 
farming,  and  had  done  well.    The  thought  that 
*they  could  get  along  without  him   now  never 
entered  the  minds  of  the  occcipants  of  the  farm- 
house.   His  grandmother  was  very  feeble,  increas- 
ingly so  i  but  she  never  wanted,  though  her  hands 
refused  to  labor  as  they  were  wont.    Her  boy  was 
kind  and  attentive,  coming  in  to  do  up  little 
chores  several  times  a  week,  and  yet,  with  all  his 
work,  managing  to  learn  very  much  from  the 
books  to  which  his  master  gave  him  free  access. 
He  had  grown  broader  and  taller  — he  would 
never  be  a  giant— and  had  an  air  of  culture 
about  him  remarkable  whea  you  consider  all  his 
circumstances.  ■     ^^^-  ^»*»''  *>-  *N^^'  ■'"•'""  '*  ^'- ^ 

Times  were  dull  in  our  city,  especially  in  that 
branch  of  business  in  which  Kiddy  Langdon  and 
her  mother  were  engaged.  The  widow  had  been 
very  poorly  for  months,  and  was  much  worried 


M 


rmammi)^mktmMmi-W'«>t>»ilf 


mDiruiliiWJMUmsllHllW.'ljAilSf'IMJ!" 


'  OUB  BTB«BT. 

about  the  protracted  weakness  of  her  baby,  tow 

Poor  old  Widow  Graf  ham!  In  her  uneasmes. 
she  seemed  at  times  almost  to  eatch  sight  of  the 
cloud  hovering  above  her  home.  But  she  waB 
determined  not  to  see,  and  raUied  her  child  and 
herself,  as  if  our  will,  our  assumed  cheerfulnesa. 

ever  evaded  fate!   ^   ^    ;    ^  , 

Winter  settled  in.    Novem\>er,  December,  Jan- 
uary;   then,    suddeuly-very    suddenly,    they 
thought,  though  she  had  been  ailing  so  long- 
Letty  was  prostrated  by  fever.     Typhus,  m  h 
very  malignant  form,  the  good  doctor  pronounced 
it,  and  shook  his  head  gravely;  but  he  hoped -- 
they  all  hoped -she  would  rally.    How  could 
death  feed  on  anythmg  so  fair,  as  dear,  ^weet- 
faced  Letty  Sawyer?      ?  Ji :^;:_  i;^^ 

She  was  delirious  from  the  first,  and  her  ravings 

wrung  the  hearts  of  those  whose  idol  she  was, 

and  soon  it  was  thought  best  to  send  for  Becky. 

Who  can  describe  the  sensation  coming. to  one 

'       With  the  sudden  news  of  a  dear  one  ill.  and  &r 


•if 


of  her  baby,  her 


,ftj»ai 


In  her  uneasineM 
catch  Bight  of  the 
me.  But  she  was 
lied  her  cliild  and 
umed  cheerfulnew, 

Iter,  December,  Jan- 
y    suddenly,    they 
in  ailing  so  long  — 
irer.      Typhus,  in  a 
I  doctor  pronounced 
sly;  but  he  hoped  — 
rally.    How  could 
fair,  as  dear,  syreet- 

first,  and  her  ravings 
whose  idol  she  was, 
it  to  send  for  Becky, 
iation  coming. to  one 
,  dear  one  ill,  wad  far 


f  ■"iVIIWk  i  4..  Jl    "I  11^ 


LBTTT. ' 


mmmm" 


Ml 


removed  from  us?  With  a  heart  full  of  forebod- 
ings, yet  fuU,  as  well,  of  sweet  assurance  of  a 
brother  Christ  at  hand,  Becky  took  the  midnight 
train  from  Boston. 

AH  the  long  ride  — so  long  to-night,  never  so 
long  before  — she  wrestled  with  some  unseen 
power.  The  news  that  had  struck  deepest  terror 
to  her  heart  was  not  that  Letty  was  so  sick,  but 
that  for  some  time  past  her  mind  had  been 
wandering ;  for  in  the  self-same  hour  had  come 
her  mother's  letter,  written  days  before,  and^l^e 
telegram  not  an  hour  old. 

«You  can  have  her,  O  my  Saviour,  but  she 
cannot,  shall  not  live  insane  I"  she  said  over  and 
over  again,  that  weary  night.  "  Nay,  thy  promises 
are  surel  'The  priyer  of  faith  thall  heal.' 
God's  thall!  I  will  not  let  thee  go.  Beside  her 
ravings  shaU  ascend  my  pleadings,  nay,  demand- 
ings.     Thou  canst  not  deny  thyself,  and  it  is 

written."  ^,,v   ,^\.,,,^:.  -^.j,_ 

I  0 1  agonizing  was  the  sferugy^  n^ver  suspected 
by  the  Strangers  that  passed  her.    How  truly  are 


I 


I 


immwii'iriiiiiMWiiiin^.iwiri'1'n'iiii   "'    ''"'"'  f      miiiMiiAiitjui^'ami: (;-?—"• 


240 


OUB  BTBXBT. 


our  lives  ourn  1    How  little  do  we  really  know  of 
each  other  I     Who  of  those  passengers  imagined 
the  awfulnesB  with  which  that  pale-faced  woman's 
soul  was  wrtPtling  with  powers  omnipotent  ?    But 
the  victory    was    assured;    He  abideth  faithful. 
The  last  tremor  of  fear  had  faded   from  Becky 
Cartwright's  heart  ere  the  iron  horse  dashed  into 
the  depot,  and  her  hand  waa  clasped  by   Mr. 
Langdon's.        '       ■.'■'•■••—  -.'-.rrf  V..  ,*  ,,,  ^d.i- 
Such  a  home !  such  a  home  I    Unrest  was  in 
every  heart,  on  every  face.    Amid  them  all  Becky 
alone  was  quiet,  except,  perhaps,  Mr.  Sawyer,  the 
sick  woman's  husband  ;  but  hU  was  the  stillness 
of  despair,  Becky's  the  qiuet  of  a  heart  anchored 
to  Almightiness.  "      -'  '-    '-""'''  *"'  ^^ 

Letty  did  not  recognize  her  sister.  She  had 
called  for  her  repeatedly  in  her  delirium,  but 
neither  look  nor  word  signified  any  realization  of 
her  presence  after  she  came.  But  Becky  cared 
little  after  bhe  heard  the  word  her  ears  were 
Btraine«»  to  catch  fall  through  the  parched  lips, 
uJesuB."     O,  word  of  words  1      Refreshment, 


i 


4 


xjntt^"-'^' 


m 


we  really  know  of 
.RRengera  imagined 
pale-faced  woman'* 
omnipotent?  But 
e  abideth  faithful, 
faded  from  Becky 
horse  dashed  into 
w  clasped  by  Mr. 

el  Unrest  was  in 
mid  them  all  Becky 
ips,  Mr.  Sawyer,  the 
lis  was  the  stillness 
of  a  heart  anchored 

ler  sister.  She  had 
1  her  delirium,  but 
ed  any  realization  of 
>.  But  Becky  cared 
word  her  ears  were 
jh  the  parched  lips, 
irda  I      Refreshment, 


.<*"  ri.i2w^'>« 


rest,  strength  to  do,  bear  anything  lay  In  it. 
Becky  was  armor-proof  to  anguish  after  that  whis- 
pered  word  assured  her  that  even  the  delirium  of 
fever  had  not  robbed  her  darling  of  the  felt  prea- 

ence  of  her  Lord. 

The  end  was  not  long  delayed  after  the  sister's 
arrival.  Saturday  night  the  telegram  reached 
Becky;  early  Monday  morning,  ere  the  day  broke, 
the  gates  of  paradise  unlocked  to  Letty.  She  had 
no  terrible  struggles  after  Becky's  coming,  no 
wild  hours.  A  quietude,  which  was  heaven  in 
comparison  with  the  days  before,  had  settled 
upon    her.      O,  what  a  God  was  Becky  Cart- 

Wright's  1  '••^"  -•'  —  -      » 

The  church,  of  which  Letty  had  been  long  a 
member,  had  just  parted  with  a  much-loved  pastor. 
He  who  now  filled  the  pulpit  was  a  comparative 
stranger.     Mrs.  Grafham  had  yearned  for  the 
familiar  voice  she  had  learned  to  love,  to  breathe 
a  prayer  over  her  dying  one,  and  she  was  not 
denied.    Called  to  the  city  for  that  one  Sabbath, 
and  hearing  of   Letty's  Ulness,  the    dear    man 
sought  her  bedside. 


'I 


H 


'  11 


•* 


i 


.> 


f 


mmemBimimmMiC«iSS£iiSi'Sk 


s^jm^ii^ifB^i^M^'i]  !h 


am 


248 


OUB  STBXET. 


Tliat  scene  will  never  be  forgotten  by  those 
who  ^vitneased  it.  The  quiet  Sabllath  afternoon, 
tiie  jnconscious  sufferer,  the  te^rfij  household, 
the  stricken,  wondering  servant  of  God,  to  whom 
that  old,  wan  face,  last  seen  so  round  and  fair, 
seemed  iuexplicablo, 

♦'  Leity  I  Letty  I  Letty  I "  the  mournful  tender- 
ness of  his  tone  gathering  pathos  with  each 
syllable.  "  Letty !  Letty  I  Letty  1 "  Then,  with 
an  upward  movement  of  his  hands,  the  closing  of 
his  eyos,  he  said,  "Let  us  talk  to  God!"  and  they 
did.  _. 

O,  it  was  thrillingly  pathetic,  very  fitting, 
wonderfully  soothing,  that  well-loved  voice,  usher- 
ing in  that  well-loved  soul  to  heave  1 1  But  its 
familiar  tones  elicited  no  notice  from  the  sick 
one-  Not  gone  yet,  quite  ;  not  yet  inside  heaven. 
B'lt  her  feet  lingered  about  its  vestibule,  the  veil 
had  fallen  between.  Here,  and  there,  between 
this  world  and  that  —  Letty  was  no  longer  of  us  I 
;  Beautifully,  quietly,  she  passed  away,  in  the 
early  morn,  her  sisters  and  brother  about  her.    Her 


gotten  by  those 
bllatb  afternoon, 
nrfi;<  hous&Lnld, 
)f  God,  to  whom 
round  and  fair, 

nournful  tender- 
jithos  with  eaMsh 
1 "  Then,  with 
Is,  the  closing  of 
God!"  and  they 

ic,  very  fitting, 
ived  voice,  usher- 
leave  1 1  But  its 
e  from  the  sick 
et  inside  heaven, 
estibule,  the  veil 
.  there,  between 
no  longer  of  us  I 
3d  awp.y,  in  the 
about  her.    Her 


IMM& 


lasrrtipo- 


249 


mother,  in  an  adjoining  room,  held  the  little  babe 
which  would  nestle  to  no  other  bosom.  Becky, 
with  fascinated  eyes  and  breath  abated,  watched 
as  the  tide  ebbed.  Yes,  it  was  beautiful  1  Those 
gray  eyes — those  great  gray  eyes  —  large  and 
unearthly,  the  quiet  breathing,  softer  than  any 
babe's  on  his  mother's  breast,  lengthening  imper- 
ceptibly, until,  when  it  ceased,  they  knew  it  not. 
Five  words  repeated  themselves  over  and  over, 
in  Becky  Cartwright's  mind.  "Only  a  step  to 
Jesus."  O,  such  a  little  step  1  O,  such  an  envied 
step  it  seemed  just  then  1 

,  The  husband's  hand  olosed  the  white  lids  over  ' 
the  soulless  eyes,  Gregory  turned  away  with  a 
strange  choking  in  his  throat,  Kiddy  kissed  the 
frozen  lips,  and  Becky  whispered,  as  she  took  a 
long,  long  look  at  the  face  of  this,  her  childhood's 
idol,  the  companion  of  her  riper  years,  "  Good- 
night, Letty ;  we'll  meet  again  in  the  morning  1 " 

f    8hadow«d  days,  a  funeral,  then  the  selling  out 
of  Widow  Graf  ham's  shop.     How  could  she  tend 


n 


r     ^ 

J* 

1 


:At '  -^m^     tirimg*. 


»mixmi^imiAmmiMtimf»a»anuiktiM'iiMift  ••^miHiMstiimwMiiaiimgtmiaiaiMhi 


■jl 


I!  I\ 


250 


OXTB  STBEBT. 


it,  and  care  for  those  motherless  babes?  and  who 
else  could  tend  them  but  she?  Who  else  should  ? 
Becky  still  remained,  packing,  hunting  for  a 
house,  and  now  and  again  taking  Kiddy's  place 
across  the  bay.  All  dreaded  the  hour  when  she 
must  go.  And  —  was  she  mistaken,  or  did  her 
mother's  eyes  follow  her  with  a  more  fearful  ten- 
derness, as  if  she,  too,  might  be  snatched  from 
her?  She  was  the  last  of  Abel  Graf  ham's  chil- 
dren. A  drunkard's  offspring  seldom  have  long 
lease  of  life,  t^t^-^mft^  %£;:?  m^t-^-^i-.i  ai 


'lis,'  'stPUJi' 


But  Becky  must  go  home  soon,  and,  indeed,  she 
was  scarcely  needed  now,  for  a  cottage  had  been 
hired,  the  household  stuff  arranged  in  it,  and  die 
family  were  spending  their  last  night  together  at 
Gregory's.  Kiddy  was  very  weary  to-day,  so 
Becky  took  her  place  again  across  the  bay.      -m 

The  afternoon  seemed  very  long ;  there  was  but 
little  trade.  She  shut  up  the  shop  that  evening 
earlier  than  usual,  and  prepared  to  go  home. 
There  were  but  few  passengers  to-night  in  the 
horse-car,  and  Becky  felt  glad  of  that,  somehow, 
as  she  seated  herself. 


tabes?  and  who 
ho  else  should? 
hunting  for  a 
f  Kiddy's  place 
hour  when  she 
ken,  or  did  her 
lore  fearful  ten- 
)  snatched  &om 
Graf  ham's  chil- 
Idom  have  long 

and,  indeed,  she 
attage  had  been 
d  in  it,  and  die 
ight  together  at 
^eary  to-day,  so 
)S8  the  bay.:*?,  m 
g ;  there  was  but 
lop  that  evening 
)d   to    go  home, 
to-night  in  the 
f  that,  somehow, 


tijfill.ill    l.lii.ijlilj,.ni,li|],ll  , 


tBTTTi^"- 


m 


^  It  was  a  dull  night.  Not  altogether  devoid  of 
stars,  but  they  were  few,  and  Bec!cy  felt  the  ride 
chill  and  dreary.  She  pressed  her  face  to  the 
car-window,  and  noted  listletisly,  what  she  had 
noted  so  often  before,  on  cheerier  rides,  the  lights 
twinkling  through  far-away  windows  across  the 
bay.    ■     ■.-  :      ■ 

No  '  hous6((  ^ere  visible,  even  in  outline, 
only  the  tiny  lights,  each  separate  light  a  home, 
she  had  thought,  and  thought  now.  But  in  those 
other  diiys  the  thought  had  brought  joy  with  it, 
for  was  not  every  home,  in  fact,  a  tin^'  light 
sending  its  ray  to  brighten  earth  ?  To-night  she  ' 
only  shuddered.  The  word,  so  sweet  to  mortal 
ears,  was  agony  just  now.  Home  I  How  could 
she  imagine  home  here  without  Letty?  Home! 
at  the  best  'twas  but  a  broken  one, 

"  A  broken  home ! "  She  whispered  the  words 
over,  her  voice  pathetic  with  its  thought.  How 
many  of  those  homes  across  the  bay  were  broken 
ones?  And  yet — they  still  sent  out  their 
light  I  ' ""  .■«-^,  -  "■■•« 


J,  >i 


St -I 


i**-«wiafe<>«<ii»iiteaatiMttihiBii^ 


•'iA«luM<<f#fM«]W-         >» 


262 


ouB.  vrsJSBi- 


t^i 


S    ' 


-•i  War  not  that  the  saddeet  thought  of  all?  they 
mu$t  live  on  without  her  I     ■*f,.*iw  m<^iti    x*-*""* 
She  closed  her  eyes.    She  could  not  bear  those 
twinkling  lights  just  then.      Unconsciously  she 
raised  her  face  up  with  her  heart,  and  cried  to 
infinite   Pity  for  sympathy.    Her  opening  eyes 
met  the  stars.     They  came  to  her,  just  then,  aa 
lights  from  other  homes,  across  the  deep  blue 
vault  of  heaven  —  homes  unseen,  not  even  out- 
lined to  her  vision,  dimmed  as  it  was  by  the  clouds 
and  mists  of  time,  circumscribed  by  her  mor- 
tality.* A« 
♦'  Homes  broken  here,  but  mended  there,  never 
more  to  be  broken  1 "    There  was  joy  unspeakable 
in  the  thought  that  pain  had.  brought  to  birth  and 
fruition.    Heaven  took  an  added  beauty  in  that 
hour — it  seemed   more    like   home  with    Letty 
there!                                        -  -^ 

Kiddy  met  her  at  the  door  with  questionings  as 
to  the  shop,  but,  meeting  the  wistful  longing  of 
her  eyes,  asked  her,  instead:  "What  now, 
Becky?"  - 


'  "  W-W^^ 


spsfri^iT* 


.        ■  I    .    I-".«II»!! 


;ht  of  all?  they 

.  not  bear  those 
iconsciously  she 
rt,  and  cried  to 
r  opening  eyes 
;r,  just  then,  as 
>  the  deep  blue 
,  not  even  out- 
yas  by  the  clouds 
sd  by  her  mor- 

.     -  .   yt!i: 

ded  there,  never 
1  joy  unspeakable 
ight  to  birth  and 
I  beauty  in  that 
)Mae  with    Letty 


.'.^."^Jitt*.^. 


1  questionings  as 
istfiil  longing  of 
:    "What   now. 


ixm::^^ 


268 


"  0,  nothing  J  only  I  am  getting  homeuck  1 " 
Becky  made  answer;  and  Kiddy  did  not  even 
dream  of  what  she  meant.  .;;3':^;  5i  *  >,i*\c  »■  ><^.^ 

Mrs.  Graf  ham  had  been  cbaxdd  into  a  Uttle 
sleep,  the  babies  were  quiet,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lang- 
doh  conversed  together  Becky  longed  for  soma 
one  in  sympathy  with  her  mood,  and,  slipping  out 
of  the  back  door,  sought  little  Bry. 

She  found  the  child  alone  in  the  dark,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  stars,  as  she  loved  to  sit.  She  greeted 
Becky  with  a  smile,  and,  looking  up,  said :  "  They 
are  all  out  to-night.  Mother's,  and  Violet's,  and 
Stevie's,  and  Let*y's.  O,  Mrs.  Cartwright,  it 
'most  seems  like  home  up  there  1 "  s^^^ 

So  Becky  took  the  little  hands  in  hers,  and, 
sitting  down,  txtld  her  of  her  thoughts  that  night. 
From  this  they  were  led  to  God's  wonderful  love 
and  mighty  resources,  to  the  worlds  of  which 
these  little  stars  testified,  until  at  length  Bry, 
With  a  long-drawn  breath  said,  "God  and  you 
know  everything,  Becky  I "  *- 

Becky  smiled,  yet  she  sighed,  too.    "  Otoi  knows 


^>^V^J8e«lipffl'ft.ittil4^^M^lfeaMft>^ai^«^iilv,afat^a^^,^ffl^•*.^^fc«^ 


■  ^llj»>;i>pii]i.M.til|i|,)JJIH'.!;ii,i   .".!,'.. 


254 


OUB  8TBBET. 


all,"  she  said,  "  and  I  shall  know  because  he  says 
80.  '  Then  shall  I  know  even  as  also  I  am  known.' 
We  have  only  the  beginnmgs  here,  the  wisest  of 
us  i  but  the  threads  gather  in  our  hands  which, 
drawing  upwards,  shall  open  to  perfect  vision. 
Bryony,  I  grow  homesick,  sometimes,  for  the 
land  of  all  knowledge."       v.   ».^-    -  /^fc. 

« But,  Mrs.  Becky,  you'll  enjoy  that  land  so 
much  the  more,  because  you've  missed  it  bo 
here,"  sighed  Bry.  K  . 

"Yes,  but  I  grow  impatient  sometimes."     ' 
"  I  know.    I  used  to,  when  nriother  first  went." 
♦'  Well,  how  did  you  manage  "*    You  missed  her 
very  much?"  •  '  ;;        (% 

"Yes;  but  —  Bry's  "buts"  were  all  rain- 
bows—"but  God  and  the  angels  didn't  miss 
her.      If  someone  must,  'twas  better  me    than 

them." 

"And  that  made  you  content?"  continued 
Becky,  longing  to  draw  her  out. 

"Comfortable,  Mm.  Becky.    Not  just  content, 

ftt  first."     . 


%^^^^^JlkL^i^MJ&i^^'^^^r^i-'>^i'''''^^^ 


»,j.j^  ^.-.  «  .  •     ^  f  r^ 


iuse  he  says 
[  am  known.' 
;he  wisest  of 
lands  which, 
srfect  vision. 
Qes,  for    the 

that  land  so 
nissed   it   so 

etimes."  »  " 
r  first  went." 
)U  missed  her 

ere  all  rain- 
}  didn't  miss 
;ter  me    than 

? "    continued 

just  content, 


•i;»tKTTY.     ?•■■ 


256 


3t«*And  you  never  thought  that  God  could 
have  taken  you  both,  an  ^  so  no  one  would  be 
lonesome?"      -'^'i^  ^ttm/m  ' aa'^m^i'-^'r- 

^t*  God  couldn't,  or  he  would.  His  time  i« 
always  the  right  time,  Mrs.  Becky,  isn't  it? 
Then  you  forget  Dick.  He  couldn't  live  without 
either  of  us,  and  if  only  one  could  go  there 
where  it's  so  comfortable,  I'd  rather  mother 
should,  you  know."  r>4r   am 

Becky  kissed  the  pale  face  tenderly.  ^  *.»**;' 
"Bryony,"  she  said,  "those  stars  up  there 
are  great  worlds,  but  they  don't  light  this  room 
as  a  candle  would.  A  small  light,  brought 
near,  is  worth  a  thousandfold  the  same  radi- 
ance afar  off.  I  envy  you,  my  dear  child. 
You  are  but  a  rush-light,  perhaps,  but  the 
world  is  so  much  the  brighter  for  your  shin- 
ing, that  I  do  not  wonder  our  Father  spares  you 
to  it." 

Bry  smiled  cheerily.  ■'r 

"All  things  <lo  work  together  for  good  I"  she 
laid.    "It's  nice  to  enjoy  things  when  we  get 


-tP' 


iJiaj  |iiiiiili||i  I  ■ 


a 


ii 


m- 


OUB  STBBliT. 


♦«fe.  I  'spect  you  and  I,  Mrs.  Becky,  d:u  t 
have  good  enough  ^^ppetites  for  Qod's  th  .  ^i, 
80  he  let  us  bta;-  ^ere  IDI  ^.a  sliouid  get  drear'- 
tulhuiigry.  And  I  'spects,  Mrs.  Becky,  that 
they'll  be  great  big  comfortables  when  vre 
get  'em  I " 


J«C     ' 


'np,t 


tiji'^V^  )!?s^.'o-i.'r^  ^tciia  We  i>raj .  i^.v  •.-.c  r  ■  - •; 


i'.-,v'    'O 


-;:Jfi  V"i/ i.^' <'-'    .-'-'-^^   ■.pi.'vhvl 


.    ,!   , 


•SsaSSSStse-  ■ 


MM 


Pi^.i ' 


Becky,  diu    t 

God's    th  >  ^a. 

>uid  get  drearV 

.    Becky,  that 

les    when   we 

^m    •'-'  ,i(U;Tr    ■ 

'(£.a*v^''^*]p.; 

a  woLwia     -*• 

n  6i  ■*'5:>irr    .i)sj 

{T    .JiJgii  iM  ^^^ 

h  ]lx,^w^^"T^<n.^' ' 

Mssiiii  a^'^^i  itd  !;'•-•' 

te&l-"  ili!  .'ftJill&JiS 

'  '"  :-i!'^V*&»s: 

;.;»'■*    v^i-^y  V^i^^ 

■.:;:*'^^ifca«IA 

■3i.il  *&!''&  50.  if 

%-\;fcal^.   v^SV/il«4 

its  1^17$ 
,«.fesii:>'JvJ,^'»j^ii»j«^>dj4   'i^f_  lie- ^,^^'i'id-  \i,-h?   Ki.    ,.«[    rt.5   !.,(, 

CHAPTER  XVL  ^^^^^ 

.         "^  V  HOW  IKS  PBOPOSKD. 

«t  'T^HE  yalley  of  the  shadow  of  death  I  *■     Im'-. 

■^  shadow  all  falls  on  this  side  —  or  f\t-\^^„ 
left.  There  is  no  shade  there  —  our  lo  .  1  oii'^s 
bask  in  light.  The  sun  which  brightens  t..  j  bky, 
sifting  through  the  tree-boughj,  makes  light  and 
shadow,  yet  it  all  is  light.  We  speak  of  God'a 
goodness  and  severity.  It  is  all  called  biit  good- 
ness on  the  other  shore.  Falling  through  earthly 
medium,  his  tender  love  takes  shades  of  dark- 
ness, but  its  heart  is  always  radiant.  Blessed  are 
they  who  *' abide  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Almighty." 

But  0 1  how  dark,  how  deeply  dark,  how  mys- 
teriously  dark,    was    this    afttiotion    to  Widow 

267 


■HP 


r-»' 


"liW,':l|i 


iilfW  ■ 


in 


L^raA 


268 


OUB  BTBliEST. 


Graf  ham.    "Take  that  young  life  and  leave  this 
old  shattered  hulk  I"    Bhe  Mid.      AH   Becky's 
letters  said,  "Look  up,  mother  1  look  upl"  and 
she  tried  to  follow  her  advice.    But  the  skies 
were  black  with  clouds,  or  her  eyes  were  blinded 
with  tears,  and  life  was  very  burdensome.    Yet 
she  had  to  live.    She  did  not  doubt  God's  good- 
ness,  but  the  heavy  weight  would  not  off  her 
heart.    Would  it  ever  lift?    She  did  her  duty  by 
the  children -indeed,  she  Uved  in  them,  and  so 
a  few  years  passed  by.  -;    r 

Then  dear  old  Granny  Thorpe  passed  away. 
Beulah  took  Hepzy's  place  as  under  nurse,  whik 
Hepzy  took  a  higher  place  in  the  same  famUy  she 
had  served  so  faithfully. 

Poor  old  Ezekiels  died,  too  —  rum-killed.  His 
wife  stUl  worked  hwtl  to  keep  her  brood  together, 
but  with  greater  comfort  than  in  other  days,  for 
she  had  tested  the  "rest"  preached  to  her  by 
Uttle  Bry  years  ago.^'->">  *>«?^'-  -•-•<"  ---» ,,.- 
^  As  for  Ike  Hob8on,he  stiU  clung  to  the  Har- 
greaves'  fwm,  but  he  was  getting  -restless.    Bry 


■p^it^sni^m^- 


:«y««gf«^J9Jl«!l"!«i'il'i'«!'^"j  ''a^W^W'W*"" **"*" 


aow  IKE  PROPOSED. 


269 


9  and  leave  this 
All    Becky's 
look  upl"  and 
.    But  the  skies 
yes  were  blinded 
lurdensome.    Yet 
)ubt  God's  good- 
rould  not  off  her 
»  did  her  duty  by 
I  in  them,  and  so 

rpe  passed  wnj, 
inder  nurse,  whilfl 
e  same  &imily  she 

—  rum-killed.    His 

ier  brood  together, 

in  other  days,  for 

reached  to  her  by 


S-ifcf^J-    .  --^ 


1  clung  to  the  Har- 
tting  restless.    Bry 


said,  and  perhaps  she  was  right,  "  that  there  was 
something  inside  of  Ike  bigger  than  be  could  get 
out,  but  it  must  come  some  day,  or  kill  him." 

He  studied  every  spare  moment.  Night  after 
night  found  him  absorbed,  and  always  'n  books  of 
weight.  Now  that  he  had  really  no  one  but  him« 
self  for  whom  to  provide,  he  bought  books  with 
his  earnings,  books  without  expensive  bindings, 
but  with  solid  teachings,  among  which  books  on 
physiology  and  anatomy  were  predominant. 

Meanwhile  his  admiration  cf  Juniper  had 
grown,  powerful.  She  was  the  same  sweet,  erratic 
June  as  of  old.  A  little  more  womanly  and 
dig^fif^d  by  spells,  always  charmingly  naive. 
It  was  fully  decided  at  last  (since  Mrs.  Hargreave 
gained  strength  daily)  that  June  should  attend  a 
seminary  for  several  years;  and  Ike,  knowing 
this,  trembled  at  thought  of  his  loss,  rejoiced 
at  the  thought  of  her  gain.  ^^^^ 

There  had  been  a  baby  boy  added  to  the  in- 
habitants of  the  house,  a  boy  "  resembling  Pop- 
sydil,"  June  said,  which  fact,  of  course,  seomed 


!j.j»Jrt<WtiifaiWW^ 


mmmfr 


■ 


260 


OUB  8TBBBT.    .n.t 


him  a  large  place  in  her  favor,  and  exalted  hit 
mother  also,  unconsoiouHly.  Jvine  went  so  far  a« 
to  pat  her  cheek,  Boraetiraes,  and  to  »ay  very  — 
very  occasionally,  "Mamma  Maria." 

Mr.  Hargreave'9  nephew,  Harold  Hargreave, 
had  been  visiting  the  family  during  the  fall.  He 
was  a  tall,  handsome,  well-developed  young  man, 
and  after  Ike  discovered  that  Miss  June  admired 
his  figure  so  mucli,  a  strong  desire  to  grow  big 
toolc  possession  of  him.  Indeed,  he  mutt  grow 
big,  and  quite  decided  he  should.  How?  T|»t 
was  the  question  he  tried  to  solve. 

Ike  was  but  a  boy  yet,  and  after  long  delib- 
eration he  hit  upon  a  plan.  Daily,  now,  when 
quite  sure  he  had  the  barn  to  himself,  he  hung 
by  his  hands  from  a  beam,  then,  catching  his  feet 
under  an  arrangement  below,  with  a  sudden  up- 
ward spring  caught  by  two  hand-rests  arranged 
above  the  beam,  thereby  giving  himself  a  good 
St  otching.  This  exercise  was  alternated  with 
that  of  catching  his  feet  on  the  beam  and  his 
hands  below.    If  Ike  had  been  preparing  hin^- 


iirj.ffi''       VU.>' 


-.^««i^ 


■ifaB***^*"!** 


SHLL  J-U'lU'H'lJiliaxWt'I^it'l''"'''''  "  "-Ji*"'"""" 


and  exalted  hia 
B  went  so  far  as 
1  to  Bay  very  — 
ria." 

,rold  Hargreave, 
Ing  the  fall.  He 
>ped  young  man, 
isB  June  admired 
sire  to  grow  big 
i,  he  mtut  grow 
d.  How?  Ti»t 
►Ive. 

after  long  delib- 
Daily,  now,  when 
I  himself,  he  hung 
,  catching  his  feet 
vith  a  sudden  up- 
tud-rests  arranged 
ig  himself  a  good 
9  alternated  with 
:;he  beam  and  his 
sn  preparing  him- 


HOW  KB  PROPOSED. 

self  for  a  public  circus  actor  he  could  hardly 
have  practised  more  sedulously.  He  measured 
himself,  often,  by  a  notch  in  the  wall  of  his  room, 
and  fancied  he  gained  a  little. 

One  morning  Ike  had  just  got  safely  swung, 
head  downward,  when  Miss  June  suddenly  pre- 
sented herself. 

"  Isaac  Paul  Hobson,  what  are  you  doing  I " 
she  cried.  "  Are  you  preparing  yourself  for  the 
circus  ?  You'll  run  off  every  grain  of  sense  you 
possess  at  the  ends  of  your  hair!" 

And  Isaac  Paul  suddenly  gained  his  feet,  with 
a  face  all  of  whose  color  was  not  induced  by  his 
exercise. 

He  had  nothing  to  say  for  himself,  so  June 
proceeded;  ^ 

♦'What  were  you  doittgtWKJ«?gf££'yxfi^p«:  .l>«a 

"Stretching  myself."  ^tsi^f^  uw? 

"  Stretching  yourself  I  Well,  I  should  think  so ! 
I  suppose  this  is  another  specimen  of  your  stretch- 
ing," producing  a  book.  "  Aunt  Myra  found  this 
while  hunting  for  eggs  this  morning.  I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  know  who  owned  it." 


WiW 


•x/*. 


Momaas^: 


262 


0T7B  STBKBT. 


Indeed,  Ike  did  know.  It  was  his  own  prec- 
ious property.     He  put  out  his  hand  eagerly, 

"I've  examined  it,"  said  June,  "and  it's  full  of 
horrible  skeletons.  I  really  think,  Ike,  you  must 
be  ruober,  or  all    your   stretching  would  ruin 

you. 

She  loved  to  tease  him  a  little.  If  her  words 
left  any  sting  now  it  was  swept  away  when  shortly 
afterward  he  overheard  her  warm  defense  of  him 
to  Aunt  Myra.  '      "    ' 

"  It  is  no  use,  auntie.  God  doesn't  make  the 
distinctions  we  do.    He  may  see  that  Ike  is  fitted 

'  for  such  studies.  Station  has  little  to  do  with 
brains,  and  Ike  has  enough  brains  for  a  couple  of 
such  small  chaps.  Thought  is  like  yeast —he'll 
rise  yet.  If  it  had  been  gunpowder  he'd  have 
been  blown  up  long  ago. 

Yet  Miss  Juniper's  theory  and  practice  did  not 
always  agree. 

-       The  winter  had  opened  with  quite  a  round  of 
gayety.      June,  largely  relieved  frota  household 

'    cares,  as  Aunt  Myra  had  taken  up  her  abode  in 


ijjiiBJlf  i'ai'-*uw<*  r 


as  his  own  preo- 
3  hand  eagerly. 
, '^and  it's  full  of 
ik,  Ike,  you  must 
liing  would  ruin 

le.  If  her  words 
iway  when  shortly 
m  defense  of  him 

doesn't  make  the 
)  that  Ike  is  fitted 

little  to  do  with 
ins  for  a  couple  of 

like  yeast — he'll 
powder  he'd  have 

i  practice  did  not 

I  quite  a  rouad  of 
sd  frota  household 
1  up  her  abode  in 


pnppp 


m 


m 


niWlli!rt>« 


HOW  1KB  PROPOSED. 


263 


the  farm-house  since  the  new  advent,  attended 
several  parties,  more  to  please  her  father  than 

herself.  '*   -ht-s:-'^    '.stftstf:  f^r^i*'  -It^  hk,^^r^'-..,-^  „,.:}>.      "■• 

"  They're  so  namby-pamby,"  she  said  secretly, 
to  Ike.  "I  hate  stiff,  starchy  ways,  and  loose 
silly  ways ;  I  fear  I  wasn't  made  of  party  stuff." 

Mr.  Hargreave  himself  accompanied  his  daugh- 
ter to  one  of  these  entertainments,  a  young  gen- 
tleman the  next  time,  while  again  she  ordered  Ike 
to  drive  her,  on  the  nest  occasion,  to  the  gather- 
ing, and  asked  him  to  see  her  home.       .>  \ 

"Don't  bring  the  horse,  Ike;  put  hun  up,"  she 
said,  in  her  little  dictatory  way.  "I  want  to 
walk  when  I'm  so  heated.  It  gives  me  the  chills 
to  ride.  Come  early ;  I  want  to  cut  the  evemug 
short.    I'm  determined  uot  to  like  these  things." 

She  stood  before  him  in  her  party  dress  as  she 
ppoke,  the  very  embodiment  of  loveliness.  He 
doubted  if  her  equal  would  be  there  that  night, 
and  almost  longed  to  be  present  and  witness  her 
supremacy.  \  '     '      ; ""         "       ■'"''- 

a;  -When  he  called  for  her,  Bome  hours  later,  he 


264 


■W<?HW^!ff?WS!f" 


,T,u   9V»  STREET.  Jiffi; 


vra»  ushered  into  a  little  room  &om  whicb  he 
caught  .a  glimpse  of  the  gaj  throng.  A  hand- 
some face  was  bending  close  to  June's,  a  face 
moustached,  and  flushed  with  admiration.  Ike 
felt  a  strange  thrill  at  his  heart  as  he  looked 

She  came  immediately  on  hearing  he  had 
arrived,  the  moustached  gentleman  still  beside 
her.  In  vain  ho  urged  lus  company  upon  her, 
however.  She  had  an  escort,  she  laughingly 
declared,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  look  of 
vexation  and  scorn  that  passed  over  the  gentle- 
man's face  as  he  took  in  at  a  glance  Ike's  hum- 
ble appearance.  .,^1  ^svv#-:^*/fr  :.-.-i;istu'4w-  ?♦*«■?? 

"  Why  should  you  be  dependant  on  a  servant 
when  a  gentleman  offers  you  his  escort?"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  that  reached  Ike's  sharp  ears. 

"I think  that  is  the  title  you  assumed  but  a 
few  moments  since,  '  My  humble  servant,'  did  you 
not?"  laughed  June.  "There  is  small  choice  iu 
servants,  only  I  prefer  one  tried  and  true.  Good 
evening,  Mr.  Evans."    ;^^  i,,.  .^  f^i^. :.  *.,.-•  p^tr^'o-j 


■:m^.. 


iiiiiiBiffliii'niMW**"*''*'''* 


I'irt  iltniiii' 


■»iilli.»WJllil.J<M 


b\-.  aMta 


m 


'  Y'    '"^r ''■''w'.^ir-'it/K  'T^T's^^y^^^y 


wmm 


from  whicb  he 
hrong.  A  hand- 
to  June's,  a  face 
admiration.  Ike 
rt  as  he  looked 

hearing  he  had 
man  still  beside 
npany  upon  her, 
,  she  laughingly 
s  of  the  look  of 
over  the  gentle- 
glance  Ike's  hum- 

ant  on  a  servant 
his  escort?"  he 
e's  sharp  ears,  ft 
1  assumed  but  a 
servant,'  did  yon 
s  small  choice  in 
and  true.    Good 


HOW  1KB  PBOPOSED. 


265 


tii  Ike  smiled,  and,  strange  he  should,  referred  to 
it  as  they  walked  home.  ''ii|f^*#--r%-'-»;»#!«;i'?'-- 

f>c  "'Most  any  young  lady  would   have    chosen 
such  an  escort,"  he  said.  >^**^  (.iicitw^*^?.AiMt^ 

fiv  "  I'm  not  ♦  'most  any  young  lady,'  I'm  myself,'* 
she  said,  half  pettishly.  "  How  I  hate  that  fel- 
low's silly  talk."  W^'-:  x:-.i}iiMXij:-t;.umt:  *w«-v*  /;a4<«  ,j  _ 
ei  Then,  somehow  or  other,  he  never  could  tell 
how,  Ike  spoke  of  his  love  to  her.  He  had 
fully  intended  to  do  this  sometime,  not  that 
he  felt  sure  of  its  warm  reception,  but  that  he 
wished  to  confess  his  passion,      j    •■'  *■ 

;  His  words  were  bold  and  strong,  though  they 
were  not  many.  They  were  just  the  ventage  of 
his  heart.  They  would  not  have  been  uttered 
then  had  not  his  heart  been  too  full  to  hold 
them.  ■,.--m<i^mj-  ^    '  ■   ;';«!« 

"  Ike  ! "  The  little  lady  stopped  in  her  amaze- 
ment and  drew  her  hand  from  his  arm,  where  it 
had  lain.  "  Ike  "  —  her  voice  full  of  concern  — 
"I  hope  this  has  not  come  of  reading  that  yellow- 
covered  book  I  saw  you  devouring  the  other  day  ? 


ttmmHAtii^JUm 


266 


.,C.l'i'-OUB  BTBEBT. 


Those  silly  novels  ore  not  fit  for  any  sensible 
person  to  read,  and  they  are  full  of  nonsense 
about  boys  falling  in  love  with  their  masters' 
daughters.     Don't  read  them,  Ikey,  they'U  spoil 


you. 


^M  ,):Ta>v-«m»">;«t  Ajftj^ftw^i*^'  it»4aSM&^: 


She  resumed  her  walk   and  his   arm  as  she 


.Bpoke. 


•  /;•//    Art.f  7r---    1 


^\i'^.  i'uk'ii'i*^, 


"I  never  read  one  in  my  life  I"*  -"^^t^f'  *.  ^'^ 

"  Didn't  you  ?  Then  where  did  you  get  such  a 
notion  I  You  know  I  couldn't  possibly  ma  y 
you  I  It  ain't  to  be  expected,  our  circumstances 
and  educations  are  so  difierent."   «^^   ^f   Jt  -»  ?« 

Marry  him!  The  words  startled  Ike.  He  had 
not  dreamed  of  that   '^^^"v-  -r-^  ...^..^.Mt;»..-r..,.-.- 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  to  marry  me,  Miss  June,"  he 
„      ,  quickly. 

"Weil —but  —  of  course  you  meant  it.  That 
is  what  it  amounts  to,  isn't  it?"  -» -*■ 

"  I  don't  know.  I  wished  to  confess,  that's  all. 
I  did  not  ask  or  expect  your  love  in  return. 
Love  is  spontaneous.    I  wanted  you  to  know  you 


mine. 


:f,-i:i\^ni'x-.miti:'t 


!w»MM» 


iMjiii»l'liiliim«ii.'J.i'il'"»i' 


mmK^mfmrn'^mmimm 


for  any  sensible 

fall  of  nonsense 

bli  their  musters' 

key,  they'll  spoil 

his   arm  as  she 


HOW  IKU  PROPOSED. 


m 


Ql 


!»♦ 


'U,i-iti    ,i. 


uf. 


id  you  get  such  a 
't  possibly  ma  y 
Dur  circumstances 

iled  Ike.    He  had 

le,  Miss  June,"  he 

u  meant  it.    That 

confess,  that's  all. 
ar  love  in  return. 
I  you  to  know  you 


jV  **  Whut  a  furuy  fellow  you  are  I  what  a  provok- 
ing fcUow  1  Tell  a  girl  you  love  her,  but  dou't 
wish  her  love  in  return!  I  dou't  know  of  any 
other  youug^-  man  who  would  do  such  a  thing,  who 
would  even  *  confess,'  as  you  call  it,  under  your 
circumstances."  ''ks^- -life^  'vM  H'limii^m-  ?sn&'"  ' 

"  I  didn't  say  I  did  not  wish  for  your  love ;  and. 
Miss  June,  1  am  not  *  any  other  young  man.'  I 
am  myself."  ■'■smirMi::w^^'''iHu'-i:^stM<'^^-'  ':-' 
'  Ike  had  no  idea  of  playing  on  June's  late 
words,  but  she  recognized  them  and  laughed. 

"  Well,  Ike,  you  are  a  good  boy.    I  admire  you 
very  much,"  she  said.    "  I  don't  really  love  you 

—  not  that  way,  you  know ;  and  I'm  sorrv  —  no, 
perhaps  I  am  not  reaUj'  sorry,  but  I  ought    o  be 

—  that  yon  love  me  so  much.    But  you'll     irget 
it  as  you  grow  older.    You're  nothing  but  u  boy 


now. 


.a^avVAsi  »■;!( 


Then  tliey  walked  on  in  silence,?  •^"»  -' 
"Ihave  not  hurt  yo'jr  feelings,  Ike?    ^     jn't 
want  to,  but  I  had  to  speak  the  truth,"  sa.      sum, 
almost  timidly,  as  they  halted  at  the  dooc.   :|  . 


268 


OUB  STBEBT. 


♦'0  no!  you  have  not  hurt  me.    I  knew  how    ,f-^ 
you  would  receive  it,  and  I  would  rather  have  the   f   j 
truth  always.    Thank  you,  Miss  June,  and  God       : 
■bless  you."   -:;'.:v.:,;,:  .., ■?-  -^ 

And  Ike  opened  the  door  and  held  it  for  her  to 
pass  in.    ■•    '  •"    '  ':--^-- '■>■.-■  ■■'ri-;;:.  j- 

Her  father  discovered  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she 
clasped  his  neck  a  moment  after. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  bird?    Is  she 
sick?"  _    '  '  ■  " 

,  «»No,  Popsydil,  but  I  have  enough  of  parties. 
Please  don't  make  me  go  again.    The  boys  are  all.: 
fools,  and  think  one  girl  can  marry  half  of  them. » 
Why  can't  masculines  have  a  little  sense,  I  won- 
der?" and  then  she  laid  her  head  on  his  bosom 
and  sobbed  well. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  when  it  was  over,  "  I  feel 

better.      The    hateful    had  to  come  out,  or  I'd 

have  had  the  small-pox.    Popsydil,  you  and  I  will 

forswear  company  hereafter,  and  have  a  little 

•  9Q9^ort  together.'"  -^ 

*t^    \    "■'  '  r   ..  '■:'    -  '■  ■     ■';•■"  ■' 


m 


m 


B.    I  knew  how 

L  rather  have  the 

June,  and  God 

leld  it  for  her  to 

,■"  n  6.'.  ■     *  ■■   - 

her  eyes  as  she 

er.  '^-'fe'5^ 

ay  bird?    Is  she 

tough  of  parties. 
The  boys  are  all 
rry  half  of  them, 
ttle  sense,  I  won- 
lad  on  his  bosom 

as  over,  "I  feel 
come  out,  or  I'd 
lil,  you  and  I  will 
ad  have  a  little 


&r 


■W*##  .S»rf 


mk 


!9^PfpippHH««npfPMiPii 


i'S^rei'W  w!0 


mm 


aee 


'•7 


^W^ 


JBTTT  m  NBED  OF  MED'onsm. 


'  Ml  Hi  A  T    .'u!  iwJ' «1o.-t  f^svaii  ;;o->  U::  0'* 
'.r/if  'Mim  hUiivffX  ban  rtt  -^-//"^n^i-  >.'j«<rv  xwi 

.xi:  8>}*q 
CHAPTER  XVII.     ^  «M  I^h^kIs 

NOT  many  months  after  the  occurrence  of  the 
last    chapter,    Ike    left    tb      r^m- house. 
Great  was  June's  dismay  when  first  heard  of 

his  purpose.  •  "yammX'stm-(iM 

"Why,  Tee,  what  will  father  do  without  you? 
I  trust  I  have  not  caused  this  change,"  she  added 
sorrowfully.  •         ^■ 

*'  No,  Miss  June.  I  have  something  to  do  in 
the  world,  and  it  is  time  I  was  about  it." 

He  spoke  strongly,  certainly,  as  a  man  who  has 
made  his  decisions,  and  does  not  fear  his  strength 
to  follow  them.    June  wondered,  but  it  was  not 

269 


270 


OtJB  STEBET. 


the  first  time  that  she  had  cause  to  wouder  at  him 
lately,  for  he  had  changed  strangely.    .;yu  /rma^i 
His  love  had  metamorphosed  him,  hopeless  as  it 
sec  aed.    He  grew  larger  in  every  way.      The 
divine  pass'on  had  seized  him,  deigned  to  dwell 
in  him.    This  was  a  marvel.    That  eho  had  refused 
him    .7aB    no  marvel,  however.      He  knew  she 
would,  quite  counted  on  it;    would  have  been 
dlmppointed  in  her  if  she  had  not,  and  considered 
her  less  than  he  had  always  esteemed  her.   M 
Of  course  she  would  refuse  him,  out  of  respect 
to  her    own  great  womt-nliness    and  wondrous 
refinement;  but  then,  he  wished  to  confess,  just 
the  same.    He  would  be  a  man,  like  other  men, 
and  utter  words  of  love  as    fearlessly,  though 
knowing  they  must  meet   rejection.    He  knftw 
they  would  not  meet  scorn ;  he  had  measured  her 
,  soul  with  line  and  plumb,  and  was  not  mistaken. 
He  coul  I  bear  cheerfully,  nay,  triumphantly,  his 
rebuff,  since  it  proved  his  ability  to  judge  such 
character.     It  was  right  she  should  W-J  "No," 


but— 


j;  '«fhi'*%  .it&i 


jiiiujji'iliitiiiiiiiiiiii  iiiiiitiiii'i  f       "     ""~ 


0  wonder  at  him 
igely.      m/n^ii^i 
iin,  hopeless  as  it 
ory  way.      The 
ieigJied  to  dwell 
it  Hho  had  refused 
He  knew  she 
ould  have  been 
t,  and  considered 
! teemed  her*»* »  ■■''•' 
n,  out  of  respect 
J    and  wondrous 
i  to  confess,  just 
1,  like  other  men, 
earlessly,  though 
ction.    He  knew 
bad  measured  her 
^as  not  mistaken, 
triumphantly,  his 
ity  to  judge  such 
hould  pay  "No," 


»t:  .'^fH'*'^  i^t'^ 


^PWMpp 


JETTY  IN  NBED  OF  MED'CINS. 


271 


'  He  never  filled  ont  that  but.  It  was  left  a  dim, 
misty,  and  therefore  alluring  rainbow,  lifting  him 
up  to  vondrouH  undertakings,  developing,  like 
magic,  his  many  capabilities.  5S*r&:BH    rfijiift^^*^ 

'■■  Ike  was  a  winter  apple  at  best,  developing 
slowly.  Perhaps,  for  that  reason,  he  was  better 
able  to  bear  the  disappointments  and  blights  of 
time.  Ht  would  never  be  very  large,  but  old 
Granny  Thorpe  used  to  say,  "  Ike  has  mighty 
in'ards;  his  bow'ls  of  mercy  never  fail."  This 
because  of  his  wonderful  and  repeated  kindnesses 
to  doleful  Jetty  Blake,  who  always  returned 
them  with  vituperation  and  abuse,  but  to  find,  in 
her  next  emergency,  his  aid  as  ready.  *>•'«  ^  - 
No,  Ike  was  not  large  physically,  neither  veiy 
handsome.  The  deep-set  blue  eyes  were  dark  and 
bright,  but  not  large,  his  features  by  no  means 
regular.  Yet  he  could  not  be  homely.  Tapper 
is  right:  .^w.-x^i..'*-.  .;..i.,.:^.,.v.*,»  ,.  ■  ;4.  ^ 

'*'    "The  mind  fashioneth  i  tabernacle  suitable  for  itself." 
And  the  great  taoughts  and  feelings  which  stirred 
the  breast  of  Ike  Hobsou  wrought  themiielves  out 


272  OUB  BTUBKC. 

in  tender  smiles,  cheery  glances,  and  encouraging 
words,  that  wonderfully  tranuformed  his  plainness. 
When  Ike  left  Mr,  Hargre  e's  he  sought  the 
room  lately  occupied  by  his  grandmother,  but  on 
the  way  thither  ho  dropped  into    Dr.  Fosby's 

office.  ..   .  .,       'x  ......  s  -  i^^ii 

This  ruddy-faced  youth,  with  plain  but  whole, 
well-fitting  garments,  and  a  modest,  yet  manly 
assurance  of  himself,  but  little  resembled  the 
small  urchin  to  whom  the  doctor  offered  a  situa- 
tion years  ago.  They  had  met  often  since  at 
Bryony's,  and  the  good  physician  greeted  him 
heartily.  /  ^  ,,     .     ,,     / 

"Well,  young  man,  what  do  you  want?"  he 
said,  smiling,  as  r:8  seated  himself.       ,         ^ 

*'A  situation,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "lam 
ready  to  accept  your  long-ago  offer  now,  Dr. 
Fosoy."  ,  -  ^..  . '    .;  j.-^,-..>„ 

"  You  are,  hey  ?  Then  I  am  to  suppose  you 
have  made  your  fortune,  or,  at  least,  secured  a 
competence  ? "  retorted  the  doctor,  laughing. 

"  I  have  my  hands  and  brains,  and  no  person 
dependent  on  me  for  support,"  was  the  reply.' 


and  encouraging 
ned  hia  plainness. 
I's  he  sought  the 
ndmother,  but  on 
nto    Dr.  Fosby's 

plain  but  whole, 
lodest,  yet  inanly 
le  resembled  the 
>r  offered  a  situa- 
et  often  since  at 
cian  greeted  him 

0  you  want?"  he 
mself.       ,        t 
ipt  reply.    "  I  am 
[o  offer  now,  Dr. 

m  to  suppose  you 
it  least,  secured  a 
ctor,  laughing. 
US,  and  no  person 
•'  was  the  reply. 


.  * 


ait^ici.^  i.<%t^      ^^*M/s. 

JETTY  IN  JTEED  OF  MKD'CINE. 


278 


"  And  consider  that  good  stock  in  trade  ?  Well 
sir,  I  hope  you  have  more  sense  and  brains  than 
some  who  have  wished  to  fill  this  oflBce,  or  you 
and  I  will  both  be  soon  sick  of  pur  bargain. 
When  are  you  ready  to  begin?" 

"  To-day,  if  it  suits  you,  sir." 

The  old  gentleman  laughed. 

*'  Good  1 "  he  said.  "  Come,  now,"  pointing  tS 
a  row  of  books  on  a  shelf  before  him,  "hand  me 
one  of  them*  and  let  me  see  how  much    vou 


4i 


know 


„  »  ?<o3'io  imi  hfM 


"d'f 


Ike  obeyed  instantly,  his  keen  eyes  taking  ill 
the  titles  of  the  several  volumes,  but  Dr.  Fosby 
had  failed  to  trap  him  as  he  expected. 

"  Ah,  BUT,  I  see  you've  been  at  it  already.  I 
guess  you'll  do.  Yes,  I  think  you'll  do  —  got  it 
in  you.  But  how  are  you  going  to  keep  your- 
self?" .       ,  ^ 

"I'll  manage,  su",  if  you'll  onljr  give  mb  ti 
chance  to  try." 

Ihe  good    gentleman    rubbed   his   fiat  hanib 


together,  enthusiastically. 


vJi  UM  i\i:^iii{ihii'iqfii!i 


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T, 


4b 


itii 


OUB  STBEBT. 


"I'll  be  bound  you  wiUI  Yes,  you'll  suit. 
Well,  be  off  with  you  now,  I'm  too  busy  to  begin 
to-day.  Drop  around  to-morrow,  and  I'll  set  you 
at  work." 

That  night,  in  his  humble  quarters,  Ike  was 
disturbed  over  his  book  by  a  rap  at  his  door. 
In  answer  to  his  "  come  in  "  the  door  opened,  and 
Jetty  Blake  presented  herself.  Hearing  of  Ike's 
coming  home  iiom  a  friend  whom  she  was  visiting, 
she  had  called  to  see  him,  and  now  stood,  half 
blushing,  before  him. 

She  had  grown  as  tall  as  Ike  himself.  The 
years  had  improved  her  appearance,  and  with  her 
becoming  attire,  and  half  timid  air,  she  looked 
very  pretty.  She  had  been  told  this  dozens  of 
times  by  scores  of  frivolous  young  men,  and  it 
always  pleased  her  vanity,  but  not  half  as  much 
as  Ike's  hearty  "  Why,  Jetty,  how  nice  you  look," 
as  he  rose  to  greet  her.  -       ,    .-,  ,  „^.-   ,,.^„« 

He  had  not  seen  her  in  a  long  time,  but  they 
had  always  been  very  free  with  each  other.  It 
seemed  nothing  very  strange    to  him  that  she 


JETTY  IN  KEED  OP  MED'OINB. 


275 


Yes,  youll  suit, 
too  busy  to  begin 
nr,  and  I'll  set  you 

quarters,  Ike  was 
,  rap  at  his  door. 
I  door  opened,  and 
Hearing  of  Ike's 
m  she  was  visiting, 
id  now  stood,  half 

Ike  himself.    The 
ance,  and  with  her 
id  air,  she  looked 
rold  this  dozens  of 
^oung  men,  and  it 
:.  not  half  as  much 
low  nice  you  look," 
.  ■  '^~,-,'---^--  ..-,-.« 
ong  time,  but  they 
ith  each  other.    It 
)    to  him  that  she 


should  come  to  the  old  room,  and  he  asked  her 
to  sit  down.  She  did  not  comply  with  his  request, 
however^  but  stood  looking  at  him  still  through 
her  fringing  lashes. 

"  Up  to  the  same  old  business,  Ike.  How  is  it 
you  love  books  so?" 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  he  answered,  smil- 
ing, "  but  I  am  glad  it  is.  I  was  looking  over  a 
few  old  studies,  as  I  expect  to  enter  Dr.  Fosby's 
office  to-morrow." 

"Old  studies?"  Jetty  approached  the  table, 
and  glanced  over  his  page.  "That  isn't  one  of 
the  old  books  we  studied  together.  Do  you  know, 
Ike,  I'd  a'most  be  willing  to  study  'em  over  again 
—  much  as  I  hate  'em  —  to  have  the  old 
days  back,  when  we  were  so  much  together." 

"  We  ought  to  progress.  It  wouldn't  be  pleas- 
ant for  either  of  us  to  be  just  there  again,"  he 
said,  musingly.  "But  I  would  like  dear  old 
grandmother's  face  to  smile  on  me,"  glancing 
about  the  room.  "  Perhaps  you  forget.  Jetty,  that 
those  days  were  sometimes  hungry  and  cold,  and 
that  you  didn't  wear  such  nice  clothes." 


mmm 


276 


OUB  sxBBxrr. 


"Nice  clothes  1  What  are  they?"  she  cried, 
indignantly.  "  I'd  give  'em  up  willing  for  rags 
to  hear  you  call  me  Jetty,  as  you  used  to,  and 
talk  so  good  like.  I  was  awful  actin'  in  them 
days,  Ike,  but  I  aUers  thought  lots  of  you,  and 
now  you're  goin'  to  be  a  doctor,  I  s'pose,  and  git 
'way  off  from  me.  O,  Ike,  if  you  only  would 
take  me,  I'd  try  hard  to  learn  somethin',  and  not 
disgrace  you.  They  all  teU  me  I'm  handsome, 
Ike,  but  I  know  you  don't  see  like  other  folks. 
I  have  tried  hard  to  dress  nice  and  neat,  as  you'd 
like.  I'd  be  willin'  to  do  'most  anythin'  to  please . 
you,  and  I  know  I'd  make  you  happy." 

This  was  a  trying  situation  for  our  Ike.    The 
girl  was  looking  at  him  beseechingly  out  of  her , 
shining  black  eyes,  her  hands  playing  nervously,, 
with  the  fringes  of  her  shawl.    Ike  had  never 
seen  her   look  so  well,  never  so  subdued  and 
quiet,  yet  the  thrill  in  her  voice  betrayed  her 
earnestness,  and  it  pained  him  to    refuse  her.  . 
But  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  v  c,k-  i     i 

"  Jetty,  you  make  a  mistake,"  he  said,  gently. 


m. 


■nnKBt  m.  Ill  ju  wu-M-ft  u  iiUMin Mmm 


■■ST^'fT. 


ley?"  she  cried, 
willing  for  rags 
^ou  used  to,  and 
I  actin'  in  them 
lots  of  you,  and 
,  I  s'pose,  and  git 
you  only  would 
•methin',  and  not 
)  I'm  handsome, 
like  other  folks, 
ad  neat,  as  you'd 
mythin'  to  please 
I  happy." 
for  our  Ike.    The 
hingly  out  of  her 
)laying  nervously 
.    Ike  had  never 
so  subdued  and 
ice  betrayed  her 
a   to    refuse  her. 

do.  ;,;   „  v-VK'    ;    - 

"  he  said,  gently. 


mtk 


(Si^awMJtfti'.y.BjggaS^iaiiw 


JBTTT  DT  NEED  OF  MBD'CINB. 


277 


"  You  unduly  exalt  old  memories  and  forget 
yourself.  You  know  we  never  agreed  for  more 
than  ten  minut'-i  at  a  time,  and  I  fear  we  have 
not  grown  more  together  since  our  lives  parted." 
"  But  I  can  grow  like  you  and  I  will,"  she  said, 
vehemently.    "Don't  send  me  away." 

She  approached  him,  and  laid  oue  hand  on  his 
arm.    He  removed  it  kindly  but  firmly : 

"No,  Jetty,  you  must  not  be  deceived.  We 
can  never  be  other  than  friends.  I  respect  yon 
too  much  to  accept  your  offer.  I  could  not  give 
you  love  enough  to  satisfy  your  heart." 

"Yes,  you    could,"  she    interrupted    eagerly.' 
"  I  don't  ask  anything  but  the  right  to  be  with 
you.    O,  Ike" — reading  his  determination  in  his-c 
eye  —  "don't  send  me  away!"       *    *  ^ 

"I  must — and  now,"  he  answered,  gravely.  ' 
"I  do  not  love  you  —  never  could.  You  cannot  - 
be  my  wife.  I  am  sorry  for  all  this,  but  do  not' ' 
fear.  My  lips  shall  never  repeat  even  a  part  of  ' 
this  night's  history.  Let  us  forget  it  has  been.  ^ 
I  pray  you  nay  some  day  find  you  were  mistakea 
in  yourself."  ^   . 


OUE  STBIBBI. 


He  walked  to  the  door  as  he  spoke,  detennined 

to  leave  the  house  uutU  she  should  depart;  but 

she  sprang  between  him  ard  the  door.  : 

"You  don't  think  I'm  good  enough  for  youl" 

she  cried,  angrily.    "No  one  but  that  Uttle  red- 

haired  miss  will  suit  a  gentleman  like  you  1    O,  I 

know  your  secret,  don't  I,  though  1    You  think 

she'll  have  you  if  you  make  a  doctor  of  yourself, 

but  she  doesn't  love  like  I  do.     She  wouldn^t 

wait  for  you  all  these  years." 

Ike's  face  was  pale  to  sternness,  yet  tisj^wce 
retained  its  tender  pity. 

"Jetty,  will  it  make  you  happier  to  know  she 
doesn't  love  me,  that  I  do  not  expect  her  to  wait 
for  me  ?    I  cannot  throw  away  my  life,  knowing 
this,  however.    I  am  accountable,  for  my  talents 
and  actions,  to  a  higher  than  human  power.    It 
is  useless  to  talk  longer.    God  help  you.  Jetty. 
He  is  able.    God  help  you  to  live  a  noble  life,  the 
better  because  of  this  disappointment.    In  Christ 
Jesus  pain  is  gain,"  and  he  gently  put  her  aside, 
and,  opening  the  door,  passed  out  and  down  to 
the  street. 


Hrfl£StM5iMSat5M 


poke,  determined 
)uld  depart;  but 
e  door. 

nough  for  youl" 
It  that  little  red- 
a  like  you  1  O,  I 
iighl  You  think 
loctor  of  yoiirself; 
».     She  wouldn't 

less,  yet  his  voice 

ppier  to  know  she 
expect  her  to  wait 
r  my  life,  knowing 
ble,  for  my  talents 
human  power.    It 
d  help  you.  Jetty, 
live  a  noble  life,  the 
ntment.    In  Christ 
ently  put  her  aside, 
.  out  and  down  to 


J  jerry  in  nbkd  of  med*oinb. 


279 


The  girl  threw  herself  across  the  bed  and 
groaned.  She  sat  up  and  pressed  her  hands  to 
her  face.  Presently  she  arose,  and  went  slowly 
down  over  the  stairs,  and  out  into  the  cool  night 
air.  She  felt  dazed  and  faint,  and  she  felt  needy, 
too.  She  yearned  for  sympathy  and  knew  not 
where  to  find  it. 

"Mother  wouldn't  care.  I  can't  tell  her  and 
have  her  laugh  at  me,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  upon 
the  sidewalk  and  looked  bitterly  about  her. 
"What's  the  odds?  what  need  I  care  what 
becomes  of  me  I 

O,  how  fraught  with  danger  was  that  hourl 
The  light  from  Bryony's  window  fell  across  the 
road  invitingly.  "Go  over  there  1"  whispered 
her  good  angel. 

"  I'm  a-mind  to.  I  would  if  I  was  sure  Dick 
wasn't  in.  What  if  he  is  in?  I  can  face  it  out, 
but— but  I  feel  so,  and  she  was  allers  so  different 

from  most." 

A  minute  after  a  face  peeped  into  Bryony's 


room.  , 


-.jt  ».^  :_.      .^j^  w  'v'  I  .jf    i 


"--.'.^  4-e      iJi-lJl 


w. 


,;$." 


OUB  BTSBBT. 


"Are  you  alone?"  "  '       -f  « 

"  Yes,  Jetty  ;  come  in." 

The  girl  went  in  and  sat  down  by  the  stove. 
She  did  not  look  at  Bry,  she  did  not  speak;  but 
there  was  something  unusual  on  her   downcast 

face. 

Bry  regarded  her  a  few  minutes  silently,  then, 
as  if  wishing  for  something  to  say,  she  remarked 
on  the  girl's  new  dress. 

«lt  is  very  pretty.    Did  EUice  make  it?" 

'* Yes;  and  it's  becoming,  they  says,  but  what 

do  I  care?    O,  Bryony,  I'm  about  ready  to  give 

up.    I  wish  I  was  dead,  I  do  1  it's  no  sorter  use 

to  Uve  I "   and  she  threw  her  hands  up  over  her 

head,     .i  -  „?,t.;.;;v  ^jtU  ^^t-^fr  s?;!~:: 

Bry  begged  her  to  come  and  sit  beside  her,  and 
soon  had  coaxed  out  the  whole  story.  She  tried 
to  comfort  the  stricken  girl,  but  Jetty  refused  to 

be  comforted.,'; --.p-i;j,/5:i  •:iif,v.^^::v.,,  ■-; , 

"You  don't  know  anything   about  it!"    she 

said.  -■■" 'ii --t?a3  i;  ■•  ^- "■-;"■' *" 

"No.    But  I  know  some  one  who  does.'*^^^ 


few«WSI»WS*« 


mum 


j-'.'j"  _';r.,f'^^; ', 


'■7  \' 


wn  by  the  stove, 
i  not  speak;  but 
»n  her    downcast 

ites  silently,  then, 
say,  she  remarked 

lice  make  it?" 
ey  says,  but  what 
30ut  ready  to  give 
it's  no  sorter  use 
iiands  up  over  her 

sit  beside  her,  and 
e  story.  She  tried 
it  Jetty  refused  to 

g   about  it!"    she 


me  who  does.'* 


JBTTT  nsr  MBED  Ol"  MBD'OINIB. 


281 


;  vu 


"Who?"  /^' 

♦*  Jesus.' 

The  girl's  blacjc  eyee  flasjied  up  in  great  aston- 

t'>..  ..-rrU   i^-^i     A-.-C.l     IC^i    -iU    -Sf;.'"! 

ishment. 

"  He  never  loved  anyone  that  didn't  love  him  ?" 
she  said,  ftuestioningly. 

" 'He  came  unto  his  own,  and  his  own  received 
him  not,' "  quoted  Bry,  simply.  '         ' 

"01"    with  prolonged,    intense,    sympathetic 
surprise.    " Did  he  take  it  hard? " 

"It  killed  him."  " 

"  O,  Bryony  Perkins  I  I'm  afeered  that's  % 
whopper  1    He  died  on  the  cross  I"  ^ 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Bry,  with  assurance.  "  He 
died  on  the  cross,  but  not  by  the  cross.  It  didn't 
kill  him.  He  was  dying  when  they  hung  him 
there,  and  he'd  'a'  died  just  the  same  if  they 
hadn't.  Don't  you  know  he  died  sooner  than  the 
two  thieves,  and  sooner  than  anybody  else  ever 
died  on  the  cross,  because  he  had  a  broken  heart' 
Mr.  Gardenell  said  so." 

Jetty    listened    with    great,    distended    eyes» 


''■^yMM 


282 


OTTB  8TBEET. 


^f~„.^     -Y 


and  faith  unquestioniiig.    "I'm  sorry  for  lum," 

she  said. 

"And  he's  sorry  for  you.  I  wish  you'd  let 
him  help  you.  He  could  do  it  better  than  anyone 
else,  and  he  wants  to."  -  i..  .    »- 

»I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl  disconsolately, 
i»  I'm  afeered  he'd  soon  tire  of  me.    Then  I  don't 
Bee  how  he  could  help  me.    I'm  not  speritual, 
like  mother.    I  can't  communicate  with  sperits." 
"But    Jesus   isn't    a    spirit,"  said  the   chUd, 
wanrly.      "He's  just  Je»u».     Our  Jems!  who 
made  folks  happy  and  well  when  he  was  here,  and 
can  do  it  now  if  we'll  let  him.    And  0,  Jetty, 
you're  one  of  'his  own,'  and  if  you  don't  let  him 
help  you  he'll  feel  as  bad  as  everl" 

The  girl  lifted  her  head  at  this,  and  shook  it 

mournfully. 

*'I  wouldn't  like  to  make  him  feel  worse,  or 
anything,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  know  how  to 
take  him.  "I  allers  was  stupid  at  learnin',  and 
I'm  afeered  I'm  old  to  begin  this,  Howsumever, 
I  don't  want  to  hurt,  but  I  don't  know  how  to 
tell  hun."  ,  ,  ;  a  >•- 


Borry  for  Ixiin, 

wish  you'd  let 
jtter  than  anyone 

irl  disconsolately, 
ae.  Then  I  don't 
'm  not  speritual, 
ate  with  speritB." 
"  said  the   child. 

Our  Jetua!  who 

n  he  was  here,  and 

m.    And  O,  Jetty, 

you  don't  let  him 

ever  1 " 
this,  and  shook  it 

♦ ,     ■ ,    ./;;,.  . ..,, 

him  feel  worse,  or 
lon't  know  how  to 
E)id  at  learnin',  and 
this,  Howsumever, 
don't  know  how  to 


JBTTT  VS  NBBO  OF  MBO'CINa. 


288 


"I'll  tell  him,"  cried  Bry,  joyfully,  "and  you 
Mstsn  and  you'll  learn  how.  It's  easy,  and  so 
nice ;  and  he'll  always  hear  you,  and  A«'ll  be  a 
husband  to  you.  Jetty  "—lowering  her  voice  — 
"I  read  it  in  my  med'cine.  A  husband  1  just 
think  I  and'  he's  better  than  anyone  else  1  Now 
kneel  just  here,  close  to  my  chair,  where  I  can 
touch  you,  and  I  will  pray."      -■ 

Jetty  got  on  her  knees  obediently,  and  laid  her 
head  in  the  little  lap.  Two  tiny  hands  were 
clasped  on  it,  and  such  a  simple  prayer  went  up ! 
Jetty  understood  every  word,  and  now  and  then 
groaned  an  assent.      "'      *  " 

"That's  amen,  sure,"  she  said  when  it  was 
done.  "  O  Bryony,  I  wish  I  was  good  I  I  wish  I 
was  like  you,  I  do.  I'd  rather  just  die  now 
while  I'm  here,  where  he  seems  to  hear  me,  than 
git  up  and  go  out  and  fight  it,  for  it'll  all  come 
back,  I  know  it  Willi"  •*        -^^    ,  ■,      ' - 

"Yes,  but  hell  be  everywhere  to  help  you 
fight  it,  Jetty,  and  by  and  by  it'll  bring  some 
good,  you  see  if  it  don't.  He  wanted  you  to  get 
something  better  than  Ike."  '"'' 


'S 


-■^'litttii  ■ 


284 


OXrtL  BTBWI. 


('. 


Jetty   Blake  walked  away  very  slowly  from 
that  house  a  little  after.     ■  '  >-    -        ■'      "  * 

" '  Came  unto  hi«  own,  and  his  own  received 
him  not  I ' "  she  repeated.  "  That's  just  what  I 
did  I  He  was  allers  mine,  was  Ike,  allers  mine 
in  my  heart,  but  he  didn't  receive  me.  O,  if  I 
was  only  sure  the  other  would  —  he  as  was  not 
received  — it  'ud  be  a  comfort,  sure  1" 

And  Bry  said  to  herself: 

"  How  many  people  there  are  who  need  med- 
'cine.  I  wonder  he  didn't  make  'em  so  as  they 
wouldn't  have  to  take  it!" 

She  opened  her  Bible.  Her  eyes  met  a  familiar 
verse,  one  she  could  read  gUbly  now,  from  oft 

i^udpng : 

•'  All  thing$  work  together  for  good  to  them  that 

love  God" 
She  read  it  now  with  peculiar  emphasis: 
*''All  things,'  med'cine  and  all.    I  s'pose  we 
wouldn't    enjoy    that    world    so    much    if    we 
hadn't  bad  things  in  this;  and  p'r'aps  we  would 
not  love  him  so  well  if  we  didn't  need  him  to 


ery  slowly  from 


his  own  received 
'hat's  juRt  what  I 
,  Ike,  allers  mine 
eive  me.  O,  if  I 
i  —  he  as  was  not' 
;,  Burel" 

re  who  need  med- 
kke  'em  so  as  they. 

Byes  met  a  familiar 

bly  now,  from  oft 

t 

r  good  to  them  thatt 


liar  emphasis: 
i  all.    I  s'pose  we 
so    mudi   if    we 
id  p'r'aps  we  would 
didn't  ne«d  him  to 


JKTTV  IN  UKBD  OF  MBD'CINB. 


285 


do  things  for  us;  and  p'r'aps  he  loves  us  better 
'cause  there  are  some  things  he  has  to  do  for 
us  all  the  time.  I  love  everybody  better  after 
I've  had  to  doctor  'em.  Jetty's  lots  more 
comfortable  than  Aa   ever  was    '    fore  in    her 


r  vvf,«-' .■•■•  •"=-"" 


i^' 


M 


.4 


'T 


I 


0-J 


.:XA. 


«r;      '■'('■"'?■ 


\s,---i   y-i. 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

ITEXT  COMES. 

1  \  THEN  Isaac  Hobsou  presented  himself  at  Dr. 
vV    Fosby's  office  on  the  day  appointed,  it  was 
with  a  troubled,  yet  decided  face. 

"Just  in  timel  That's  right;  a  physician 
should  be  prompt.  Well,  I  think  I  am  ready  for 
your  company,"  was  his  greeting. 

Hobson  did  not  take  the  chair  whirled  towards 
him,  or  lay  down  his  hat,  as  the  doctor's  hand 
indicated.  He  did  say,  in  a  disturbed  way,  how- 
ever:  ="•''■  ■'"  "''    ■-^''--  '■        ■  -^   ■ 

y     "  Dr.  Fosby,  I  have  changed  my  mind." 

The  good  doctor  looked  more  than  surprised. 

«Come.  come,"  he  said,  jocosely.    "You  have 

286 


-..a 


sented  himself  at  Dr. 
lay  appointed,  it  was 
[  face. 

right;  a  physician 
think  I  am  ready  for 
eeting. 

hair  whirled  towards 
as  the  doctor's  hand 

disturbed  way,  how- 
aged  my  mind." 
more  than  surprised, 
jocosely.    "You  have 


NBXT  OOMES^ 


picked  up  another  old  grandmother  to  support, 
have  you?  That's  like  a  clap  of  thunder  — not 
expected  such  a  cool,  clear  day.  You  don't  mean 
it,  Hobson  ?  I  gave  you  credit  for  more  grit. 
You're  not  frightened  out  of  your  purpose,  at  the 
very  beginning,  surely?" 

«No,  sir.  Not  out  of  my  ultimate  purpose  of 
becoming  a  physician.  But"— he  hesitated 
painfully  — "thanking  you  kindly  sir,  for  your 
interest  in  me,  I  beUeve  it's  my  duty  to  leave  this 

....        .    ,    . .  _  -•    -. ,.  \    ■--..  »  ,v;..v--.t  ■  '*  '^ 
city. 

"Do  you  realize  bow  difficult  it  will  be  for  you 
to  acquire  the  knowledge  you  desire  in  a  strange 
community,  without  friends,  position  or  wealth?  " 
"Yes,  sir."        -   -     }       -■     '   -''.^•^;^^k- v  T^rv 
"You  stiU  feel  you  must  go?"      ^i.  - 
i-,  "Yes,  sir."  '  -    '*"' 

«  Well,  well,  this  is  strange.  -  You  had  no  such 
conviction  when  here  yesterday?" 
•      "No,  sir.     Circumstances   have   arisen  since 
which  lead  to  my  decision."  ^  ^^     ' 

The    gentleman   looked   troubled;   more,  an- 
noyed. '^^• 


m 


''f 


4 
I* 

-r 
I 


4 


taaa  OUB  WSBJSBI. 

«I  cannot  understand  this,"  he  said.    "'Cir- 
cumstances have    arisen '-nonsense:    I  think, 
young  man,  you  owe  me  an  explanation."        ,  . 
"  Yes,  sir,  I  do."    Ike  spoke  quickly.    "  I  only 
hesitated  because  such  an  explanation  involved 
the  feeUngs  of  another.     I- 1  have  discovered 
that  a  young  lady  of  my  acquaintance,  has  an 
uncommon  regard  for  me-"  again  the  youth 
stammered  and  stopped  short.      .',xtf  .'.      ••         ■ 
The  doctor  laughed.       ,>  v;'     i  -    '-^        ' 
"Don't  blush  so,  Hobson.    I  had  such  a  mis- 
fortune happen  to  myself,  once,  and,  like  yourself, 
no  doubt,  rather  exulted  in  the  discovery.    Well, 
I  suppose  you  consider    it   too    hard    times    to 
support  a  wife  and  learn  a  profession,  too,  and 
think  you  can  dispense  with   the  latter   rather 
than  the  former,  hey  ?  "  .t  Is  i^n  *S;^i^ r  >;'- 

«  O,  no,  sir,  you  have  mistaken  entirely.    I  do 

not  love  the  young  lady— never  can."        *h 'ku 

"  Then  where  is  the  objection  to  your  remain-  * 

ing  here?    You  are  not  supposed  to  know  of  the   i 

young  lady's  sentiment."       ^«i    <,»f   ^   •  i«^#  '•'* 


he  said.  "'Cir- 
nsense!  I  think, 
Bxplanation."  ,  i 
quickly.  "I  only 
jlanation  involved 
I  have  dincovered 
luaintance.  has  an 
•  again  the  youth 


I  had  such  a  mis- 
I,  and,  like  yourself, 
B  discovery.  Well, 
»o  hard  times  to 
profession,  too,  and 
I   the  latter   rather 

aken  entirely.    I  do 
lever  can."   i  , 
;ion  to  your  remain- 
Med  to  know  of  the 


'  h'4 


;•;&!#  ■'• 


KXXT  COMES. 

"But — hut,  sir,  she  acknowledged  it  to  me." 

•'  Whey  1 "  The  doctor's  whistle  was  surprised, 
prolonged.  "  What  a  fix  I  Oflfered  herself  I  If 
ever  a  poor  fellow  was  to  be  pitied  I  What  did 
you  do?  Put  off  an  answer,  hoping  to  rid 
yourself  of  the  lady  and  the  city  at  the  same 
time?"  '^^ 

"No,  sir.  I  refused  to  marry  her."  Ike's 
face  was  crimson  to  the  roots  of  his  brown  hair. 
"There  was  nothing  else  to  do,  you  know,  sir. 
I  could  not  deceive  her.  I  think,  if  I  go  away, 
she  will  forget.     She  is  young,  sir." 

Ike's  tender,  pitiful  heart  and  manly  courage 
were  both  voiced  in  that  one  sentence.  Dr. 
Fosby  recognized  and  respected  them.  He  con- 
tracted his  brows  and  mused  awhile. 

"  Merciless  hoyden!  "  he  said  at  last,  irritably. 
"Why  should  you  exile  yovirself,  peril  all  your 
interests,  and  when  I  begin  to  want  you  1  It's  a 
shame !  Come  I  here's  an  idea.  Why  cant  we 
transport  her  to  some  other  part  of  the  globe? 
I'd  willingly  pay  her  fare  to  California  or  the 


I 


■f 


i 


^ 


OUB  STEKET. 


Fiji   Islands,  to   relieve  your  conscience.      No 
doubt  slie  would  go  almost  anywhere  about  this 

time."  ,^     ^ 

"Yes, sir,  but  it's  best  that  she  should  stay 
here,  where  she's  close  to  Bryony.  Little  Bry  can 
help  her  more  than  anyone  else.  If  you 
pleaBo,  Dr.  Fosby,  I  feel  certain  I  am  the  one  to 

go!" 

The  doctor  did  not  answer  at  once.    He  did 

beckon  the  boy  to  a  seat. 

«I  am  thoroughly  vexed  1"  he  said,  presently. 
"  All  my  plans  dashed  in  a  moment.  Here  I  was 
indulging  hopes  of  a  son  and  successor.  Well, 
well!  this  is  a  world  of  disappointments,  surely. 
I    see  I  am  doomed  to  loneliness    in    my  old 

age!"        -      '■■       '■'■■"•      '■    ■'  ,  '   '  . 

Then,  as  the  doctor's  eyes  met  Ike's  sad  face, 
he  suddenly  realized  that  the  heaviest  blow  had 

not  been  aimed  at  himself. 

"I'm  a  selfish  old  jackass!"  he  said.    "lean 

get  along  as  I  have,  no  doubt,  but  what  about 
you  ?    I  can't  let  you  go  off  hap-hazard,  and  never 


sxzx  ooir^. 


291 


conscience.      No 
^where  about  this 

t  she  should  stay 
ly.  Little  Bry  can 
le  else.  If  yo'i 
in  I  am  the  one  to 

.  at  once.    He  did 

•  he  said,  presently, 
oment.  Here  I  was 
td  successor.  Well, 
ppoiutments,  surely, 
leliness    in    my  old 

met  Ike's  sad  face, 
,e  heaviest  blow  had 

j!"  he  said.  "lean 
ubt,  but  what  about 
hap-hazard,  and  never 


know  what  becomes  of  you.    Let  me  see ;  why, 
of  course  1  the  very  thing  1  why  didn't  I  think  of 
it  before?  and  Howard  understands  his  business, 
if  ever  a  physician  did.    Come,  cheer  up.  Hob- 
son.    L  believe  this  thing  wiU  turn  right  side  up 
for  you  yet.    Did  you  ever  hear  of  Dr.  David 
Howard?    No!  well,  you're  not  as  old  as  I  am, 
yet,  or  so  well    acquainted    with   the   medical 
fraternity.    He's  no  quack,  let  me  inform  you, 
no  twaddle.    A  king  among  men,  master  of  his 
craft.     Few  fools  who  wouldn't  like  to  change 
my  hands  for  his.    He  owes  me  a  debt,  too,  he 
imagines,  and  one  not  easily  discharged,  which 
oppresses  his  conscience.    That  will  secure  you  a 
welcome.    How  is  it?    Will  you  go?    Germany's 
not  the  worst  place  to  study  physic,  but  it  takes 
money  to  get  there.    Can  you  manage  it,  think 
you?"  ■ 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  can  get  there  somehow.  I  can 
work  my  passage,  and  if  it's  best  for  me  to  go 
there'll  be  an  opening." 

MYi^^m  ttwt's  Bryony,  all  over.     Now  how 


ft 


is 


'i 


<& 


292  o^  BTBffla?. 

long   before   you   could   get  ready  to   make  a 

u  A  half  hour's  notice  will  be  enough  any  tune. 

My  trunk  is  packed,  and  there',  only  a  good4,y  to 

my  sisters  and  Bry."     . 
The  doctor  laughed. 
..  YoaT.  »  brick.    You'U  suit  Howrd  thxou^ 

.„d  through.  Thenh.-.»oIdb«h-.won«n- 
h.ter.  H.-U  like  you  the  better  becu«  youve 
™,  from  oue.  1  don't  know  now  but  he  U  con- 
rider  rm  putting  bun  under  b^  oblig.t.on|^ 
i^teM  of  helping  him  to  liquidate  the  old 
debt,    .nd  I  «nl    Ifeel  »  pe»o"«l  1°".  "^ 

tainly."     .-~t  .v^f-v  .;  iH^ii-  '3^^'?•-' 

In  1.M  ttam  two  w«iks  Il»'»  P-od-by.  were 
«ud,  .nd  be  w«  on  1.1.  way  to  Germ«>y.  Not 
working  hi.  w.y.  l«.w.ver.  Dr.Fo.byh.d 
preeented  bin.  with  a  to>ugb  ticket,  a- pocket- 

.        *    ^r^r^Hr  uid  a  suit  of  broadcloth, 
book  not  quite  empty,  ana  a  bui 

u  There  I  don't  go  to  thanking  me,  hke  a  Utile 
rissyl"  he  sdd,  characteristicUy,  as  Ike  stam- 
Jed  and  choked  over  his  giftB.    "I'll  have  to 


T 


eady  to   make  ft 

enougli  any  time, 
only  a  good-by  to 

t  Howard  throu^ 
I  bach  —  a  woman- 
ter  because  you've 
now  but  he'U  con- 
-  fresh  obligations, 
liquidate  the  old 
personal  loss,  cei- 

[ke's  good-byt  were 
r  to  Germany.    Not 
t,„  Dr.   Fosby   had 
igh  ticket,  a  pocket- 
a  suit  of  broadcloth. 
Jdng  me,  like  a  Utile 
itically,  as  Ike  stam- 
giftB.    "I'll  have  to 


KSXT  OOMXS. 


298 


take  away  all  the  credit  for  grit  that  I  gave  you 
if  you  cave  in  this  way.  It  isn't  any  obligation 
at  all.  It  rather  makes  me  feel  *  comfortable,'  as 
Bry  would  say,  to  imagine  I  am  fitting  off  a  grown 
son  for  his  travels.  Do  well  by  yourself.  Make 
a  thorough  physician,  and  come  back  and  fill  my 
old  shoes.  That's  all  the  reward  I  want.  There  I 
God  bless  youl"         '■-  '''■''   •"■"^'    '  -  ■■"'*^-  '■'"•'' 

Dr.  Foaby's  eyes  looked  very  suspicious  as  ho 
hurried  up  the  wharf.     *  •    ''i^  ■■        ■'  f 

"  I  really  liked  the  little  chap.  Like  as  not  it's 
a  good  thing  he's  gone,  or  I'd  have  been  as  soft 
as  a  woman  over  him  in  another  fortnight.  Per- 
haps it's  lucky  Lizzie  didn't  leave  me  any  chil- 
dren, I'm  such  an  old  fool.  I  suppose  little  Bry 
is  crying  Acr  eyes  red  over  his  loss.  Well,  well, 
he's  a  good  boy,  and  Howard's  not  a  bit  too  good 
a  teacher  for  him,  if  he  is  a  prince  among  us." 

One,  two,  three,  the  years  went  by,  four,  five, 
six.  Dick  and  Ellice  have  long  since  been  mar- 
ried, and   Bry  is    aunt    to    several    bright^yed 


V 


-"-"'■ f-^-l^-i^-  ^■-■»" ■-■■ 


.iiiMiWniMt#i'nn^ 


*,^^,M^^*]ti^^Ul 


294 


OIJB  8TBKBT. 


babes.  Hephzibah  has  married,  too,  and  removed 
to  a  distant  State  with  her  husband.  The 
o<?ca8ional  notes  from  Ike  cease  with  her  going, 
and  only  a  word  or  two,  through  Beulah,  tells 
Bry  of  his  welfare.        '     ' 

Few  changes  have  come  to  Widow  Graf  ham's 
home.  Her  little  grandchildren  still  grow  up 
about  her,  Kiddy  still  finds  delight  in  serving 
her.  But  on  Our  Street  many  changes  are  visible. 
Old  Kurse  Adams  is  dead,  and  many  of  the  shop- 
keepers are  changed,  though  Hudworth  stUl  is 

there. 

Wonderful  things  these  years  have  brought 
Bryony.  Besides  many  visits  from  Rose  Har- 
greave  and  her  little  brother,  have  been  occa- 
Bional  ones  from  June,  still  much  away  at  school, 
and-  can  you  believe  it?--she  herself  has  visited 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gardenell.  -'—''  ^'-'''''^  ^-*^ 

It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  the  letter  that 
came  directed  to  herself,  begging  her  to  accom- 
pany them  and  their  children  on  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
Gardenell's  childhood's  home.    But  it  was  true, 


too,  and  removed 

husband.      The 

e  with  her  going, 

ugh  Beulah,  tells 

Widow  Grafham's 
ren  still  grow  up 
delight  in  serving 
changes  are  visible, 
many  of  the  shop- 
Hudworth  still  is 
;    ''.'■i   ^.'''   ,-i-    >I.i.'.y,; 

ars  have  brought 
B  from  Rose  Har- 
p,  have  been  occa- 
ich  away  at  school, 
le  herself  has  visited 

true,  the  letter  that 
ging  her  to  accom- 
n  on  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
).    But  it  was  true, 


NEXT  COMBS. 


296 


and  a  check  covering  the  expenses  accompanied 
the  letter.  So  ElUce  kindly  escorted  her  to  the 
place  where  Eddie  Campbell  was  waiting  to  go 
with  her  farther. 

Such  a  summer!  A  summer  at  Valley  Farm, 
in  the  old  red  farm-house,  surrounded  by  green 
fields,  and  tree-chid  hill-tops,  and  murmuring 
streams,  and,  greatest  joy,  with  her  dear  M?.  and 

Mrs.  Gardenell. 

Then   there    were   the    chUdren,   happ7    and 
merry,  and  old  Aunt  Sarah  Walton,  so  kind  and 
genUe  as  to  be  almost  unrecognizaMe    as    the 
♦'  Aunt  Sally  "  of  former  years.    Beside  these  was 
Aunt  MUdred,  handsome  and  cheery,  Uncle  Fred 
-Bry  picked  up  and  used  these  titles  as  did  the 
other  children- as  merry  and  boyish  as  if  life 
had  not  touched  his  heart,  or  accident  crippled 

his  manly  form. 

^s,  Pleasant  were  the  mornings  in  Uncle  Fred's 
studio,  among  his  pictures.  Bry  never  tired  of 
this  spot.  Delightful  were  the  long  afternoon 
rides;  and  the  evening  readings  and  talks  were 


.; 


^ 
/ 


ii 


M 


wmmmms: 


*•'  ■> 


|||9  OVB  BTBEET. 

never  afterwards  forgotten  by  our  little  friend. 
Yet  perhaps,  above  every  other  hour  of  her  stay, 
Bhe  cherished  most  the  remembrance  of  the  time 
spent  at  little  Violet's  grave  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gardenell  beside  her,  when  she  heard  the  story  of 
that  sweet  life  and  glorious  death.     .    ,...,•->.... 

It  ended,  after  awhile,  that  happy  visit;  and 
then  her  friends  made  her  what  forever  after 
seemed  to  her  a  marvellous  offer,  that  she 
should  come  to  their  home  and  hearts  as  one  of 
their  own.  ,..,,  .,;;s-i,  ''>•;,,  ,  /  -  i '._<.,"■.■  >n>::^-'.->''  O'^' 

"Such  comfortable  things  so  near  me!"  she 
said,  and  yet  she  decided  to  go  back.  "  Mother 
left  Dick  with  me,  please,  sir,  and  —  and  —  «Ae 
'spects  me,  and  Ood  'spects  me  to  take  care  of 
him.  When  he  don't  need  me,  mother  said  God 
would  send  for  me,  and  I'd  like  to  be  in  the  right 
place  when  they  come."   f...si  --   i   !%>#  ?•«  W»fj^v 

It  was  well  Bryony  had  so  decided.  Jetty 
Blake  would  have  sadly  missed  her  in  her  grop- 
ings  after  a  better  life.  It  had  been  a  hard 
straggle  for  Jetty  at  first.      Oft-repeated    and 


■«■ 


our  little  friend. 

hour  of  her  stay, 
)rance  of  the  time 
irith  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
heard  tlie  story  of 

happy  visit;  and 
rhat  forever  after 
I  offer,  that  she 
1  hearts  as  one  of 

)0  near  me!"  she 

0  back.    "Mother 

■,  and  —  and  —  aAe  " 
le  to  take  care  of 
,  mother  said  God 

1  to  be  in  the  right 

10  decided.     Jetty  i 
I  her  in  her  grop- i 
had  been  a  hard  ^ 
Oft-repeated    and  i 


NEXT  COMES. 


m 


patient  were  Bryony's  teachings,  but  by-and  by 
the  carefully,  tearfully,  prayerfully  sown  word 
began  to  germinate;  another  power,  unknown 
before,  began  to  actuate  Jetty's  life.  Then  how 
helpful  she  suddenly  became  to  those  about  her, 
especially  to  Dick  Perkins'  growing  family. 

It  was  while  she  was  there  one  time,  out  of 
work,  that  Rose  came  in  trouble  to  Bry  for 
advice.  Betty,  the  maid,  had  left  them,  and  Aunt 
Myra  was  away,  and  where  could  she  find  a  girl? 
Bry  recommended  Jetty ;  and  Jetty,  who  was  very 
reluctant  to  go  there  to  work,  finally  consented, 
"just  till  they  find  some  one  else."  But  she  was 
so  helpful,  trusty,  cheerful,  that  no  further  search 
was  made,  and,  almost  unconsciously,  she  became 
a  fixture. 

But  she  dreader  June's  coming  home.     She 
eould  not  forget  Ike  had  preferred  June,  she  did 
not  wish  to  forget  that  June  had  refused  Ike. 
But  who  ever  withstood  Miss  Juniper  Hargreave's  ' 
fascination?     She  had  not   been  home  a  week  ' 
before  Jetty  quoted  her  as  authority,  and  went  to 


"?   1 


i  Wil  *lliiilflfaMtrtMli 


298 


OUB  BTBBBT. 


her  for  advice.  I»deed,  it  was  June's  advice  that 
at  last  settled  the  most  important  event  of  Jetty's 
life,  her  marriage  with  Tom  Waters,  Mr.  Har- 
grcave's  man-of-all-work. 

«Do  you  love  him?"  June  asked,  gravely. 

i.  Well,  yes,  mostly.    Better'n  anyone  else  that 

loves  me." 

This  was  rather  a  peculiar  answer,  but  June 

took  it  for  an  affirmative. 

.*You  must  remember  he  is  not  a  Christian," 

continued  June.  ' 

"Yes,  miss,  but  lie's  steddy  and  thinkin'  on  it. 
I'm  sure  I  could  help  him,  misH." 
•    ».You  dDu't  feel  above  him,  Jetty?    I  don't 
think  it  is  ever  safe  to  marry  with  such  a  feel- 

:  «  To  be  sure  not,  miss.  He's  as  well  as  meself, 
and  has  as  much  learniu' ;  an'  I  never  thought  as 
much  of  that  as  I  should."  ,,,  .  ,  *  ;  :  uk^^^ 
.  "You  feel  sure  he'll  be  satisfied  with  you?" 
..  "Yes,  miss,  proud  of  me,  too.  Why,  he's 
fooUsh  enough  to  think  that  I  am  beyond  your- 
selfl" 


une'B  advice  that 
t  event  of  Jetty's 
Waters,  Mr.  Har- 

isked,  gravely. 
I  anyone  else  that 

answer,  but  June 

I  not  a  Christian," 

md  thinkin'  on  it. 

oirfH." 

a,  Jetty?    I  don't 

y  with  such  a  feel- 

s  as  well  as  meself, 

I  never  thought  as 

itisfled  with  you?" 
,  too.      Why,  he's 

I I  am  beyond  your- 


msxT  ooma. 


299 


June  laughed. 

"  Then  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  not  order 
your  wedding  dress,"  she  said,  gayly,  and  it  was 

settled. 

Beulah  had  married  and  left  the  city  by  this 
time,  so  no  word  had  been  heard  for  some  time 

from  Ike. 

Dick  was  doing  well,  and  had  begun  to  work 
for  himself.  One  dull  spell  Dr.  Fosby  brought 
him  the  plans  of  a  cottage  to  be  budt  on  Our 
Street,  near  the  Oaks,  where  a  number  of  pretty 
houses  were  rising  rapidly.     ' 

"  Figure  so  as  to  give  yourself  a  good  living, 
Perkins.    I  shall  not  let  it  to  anyone  else,"  said 

the  doctor. 

It  proved  to  be  a  pretty  house,  beautifully 
modelled,  with  a  south  bay  window.  When  it 
was  finished  Dick  took  his  wife  and  sister  to  see  it, 
with  pardonable  pride. 

"I  never  put  a  job  out  of  my  hands  with  which 
I  was  better  pleased,"  he  said.  "  I  wbnder  who's 
to  own  it?    It  would  just  suit  us.    Here's  Dry's 


wfe>»  iii."^M»>awi.ir.iwiK-»vfe'*fc«  -^  ~ 


800 


OUB  STREET. 


bay-window,  and  a  geod  flower-plot  in  front,  and 
mch  a  nice  vegetable  garden  behind.  I  couldn't 
have  laid  it  out  more  convenient  for  myself." 

Later  in  the  day  Dr.  Fosby  visited  it,  and  when 
Dick  called  at  his  office  in  the  evening  he  found 
him  well  pleased.  He  paid  him  cheerfully,  and 
asked  him  to  be  kind  enough  to  carry  the  deeds 

to  the  owner. 

"It  is  on  your  way  home,"  he  said.  "The 
giver  of  the  deed  does  not  wish  to  be  known,  and 
I  should  like  to  avoid  being  questioned." 

So  Dick  took  the  paper,  in  his  eagerness  to  get 
home  with  his  spoUs,  without  a  question  as  to  whom 
it  was  to  be  given.  In  his  own  little  parlor, 
remembering,  he  drew  out  the  paper  and  exam- 
ined it.  To  his  surprise  he  found  it  directed  to 
his  sister.  Yes,  rub  his  eyes  as  he  might,  it  still 
read,  "  Miss  Bryony  Perkms,"  -Jid  he  caUed  to 
her  gleefully. 

"  It  seems  too  good  to  be  true,"  he  said,  "  but 
true  it  is  1 ""  and  it  was.  So  Bry  had  her  bay- 
window. 


KBXT  COMES. 


801 


•plot  in  front,  and 
ehind.  I  couldn't 
Lent  for  myself." 
isited  it,  and  when 
B  evening  lie  found 
im  cheerfully,  and 
to  carry  the  deeds 

,"  he  said.    "The 
h  to  be  known,  and 

questioned." 
lis  eagerness  to  get 
question  as  to  whom 

own  little  parlor, 
e  paper  and  exam- 
ound  it  directed  to 
as  he  might,  it  still 
1,"  .jid  he  called  to 


«' I  wonder  who  the  giver  can  be?"  said  Miss 
June,  as,  on  returning  from  a  survey  of  the 
premises,  she  seated  herself  in  Bry's  room,  the 
bay-window  of  which  was  rich  with  fragrance  and 

bloom.       ji-,;;  V  i  >  i;     > 

** Thy  1  don't  you  know?  can't  you  guess?" 

asked  Bry,  breathle8sly,or.>  u,i^.<.  " 
«'No.  I  didn't  know  "you  had  a  suspicion  1" 
"I  haven't  a  suspicion,  I  have  an  assurance. 
It  can't  be  anyone  else  but  my  Ikey  boy.  Only 
you  and  he  and  I  knew  it  was  coming.  So  God 
let  him  send  it.  He'll  be  here  next  himself,  see 
if  he  isn't.  O,  there  never  was  so  comfortable  a 
boy  in  all  the  world  as  Ike  1  He's  like  the  one  ho 
loves  best — Jasus."       y  „. .  ^  .,.  t,  ^a  a* 


■■;,-;  I 


,.\h    •■:  ■t;^i^A 


true,"  he  said,  "  but 
Bry  had  her  bay- 


...,.J     ^.'i    ,A 


i 


V.>H. 


;.  V,;  -^-ti-- 


'ii 


■  -.i-r    y. 


.,„:  .,:     CHAPTER  XIX. 

AFTER  BOBAPS.    ,..:,:.,,. ..^..r't 

ONE  scrap  is,  she  got  sick.    Juniper,  I  mean, 
of  course,  and  sick  of  everything. 
. .  It  was  a  siUy,  tiresome  world,  ridiculous,  fool- 
ish people  in  it.    All  the  men  were  crazy,  addle- 
brained,  but  PopsydU,  and  she  wished  she  might 
be  spared  the  sight  of  another  masculine.    There 
was  no  such  thing  as  a  woman's  taking  any  com- 
fort.   There  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do  in  the 
world  but  to  take  care  of  somebody's  house  that 
Bhe  didn't  want  to  take  care  of,  or  administer  pills 
and   nostrums  for  some  other  sUly  somebody's 
patients,  who  would  be  better  off  without  them. 
Which   harangue   means   just   this.      Harold 


.rr; 


■■'■'  ■'{■,  L.-i:      '■■■'V<>-^  , 
IX.   V-»   ^^:''^'  "^  '■'' 

►S.       .„    , ^,   ,V 

Juniper,  I  meftii) 

everything.    ;  •" " 
Id,  ridiculous,  fool- 
i  were  crazy,  addle- 
e  wished  she  might 
:  masculine.    There 
I's  taking  any  com- 
for  her  to  do  in  the 
aebody's  house  that 
if,  or  administer  pills 
ler  silly  somebody's 
er  ofif  without  them, 
just    this.      Harold 


AFTEB  8CEAPB. 


808 


Hargreave  had  proposed  to  her  and  gone  away 
rejected,  leaving  her  as  miserable  as  hunself. 

She  grew  unusually  irritable,  persistently 
moody,  and  at  last 'declared  she  should  die  if  she 
did  not  get  away  from  every  familiar  sight  and 
sound;  and  if  PopsydU  cared  the  twentieth  part 
of  a  dime  for  her,  he  had  better  take  her  across 

the  ocean.  _;..,„  v,.    .^t 

PopsydU  did  care  the  twentieth  part  of  a  dime 
for  her,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Maria.  Tliis  little  woman 
pleaded  for  her  stepdaughter,  declaring  she  had 
earned  a  real  vacation  by  her  former  years  of  hard 
work  and  constant  study.  They  could  get  along 
nicely  at  the  furm-house  without  either  of  them, 
if  they  only  knew  June  was  recruiting ;  and  it 
was  finally  decided  that  father  and  daughter 
should  visit  Europe,     ju/^i:;^^-''-^  •-'■/■'••■•■-■ - 

Rose  thought  she  ought  to  go.  June  had 
everything.  She  even  cried  a  little,  a  proper 
young  ladylike  her;  but  her  father's  heart  was 
not  easily  moved,  and  she  was  obliged  to  be 
content  with  June's  promise  that  she  would  obtain 
her  the  same  privilege  some  day.         *    - 


_;_ ,    •,  -       J;'-,..^^V-i>-^'--^'^l.'f''»^-i'-  if"r~r    -.liiiln.'il''"ilrimitiliJ.ji.>m».«llHlfafeahl^J')ii|t 


.1 


804 


OUB  8TBBET. 


June  brightened  up  wouderfuUy  when  the 
journey  was  reaUy  settled  upon.  Ordered  ga^i 
ments,  wrote  letters,  visited  friends,  with  what 
Beemed  a  determination  to  turn  the  small  world 
in  which  she  moved  upside  down  before  her 
departure.  Then,  suddenly  vanishing,  left  the 
farm-house  doubly  lonely. 

They  travelled  almost  incessantly,  one  way  or 
another,  with  pleasure  unceasing,  Juniper's  zeal 
never  flagging,  her  pleasure  never  abating,  until 
at  last  the  nerves,  strained  before  her  departure, 
now  worked  unmercifully,  suddenly  gave  way, 
and  she  was  really  ill. 

Then  the  polite  German  became  insufferable, 
the  delightful  ItaUan  detestable,  the  Frenchman 
obsequious  and  palling.  Juniper  sighed  for  the 
sight  of  an  American  face. 

"  Such  a  miserable  jargon  of  a  language ! "  she 

groaned.    "  Not  a  bit  like  the  deUghtful  French  I 

■     studied  at  Madame  S-'s   seminary  1     Why,  I 

Bhould  really  starve,  PopsydU,  if  you  were  not 

with  me,  and,  dear  me,  I  beUeve  I  should  be  will- 


AFTEB  SOBAFS. 


805 


•fully  when  the 
n.  Ordered  gar- 
iends,  with  what 
I  the  small  world 
lown  before  her 
auishing,  left  the 

.,,41     i-.r^r-:4it-'e:    rUsjS'' 

antly,  one  way  or 
ing,  Juniper's  zeal 
ever  abating,  until  * 
ore  her  departvire, 
ddenly  gave  way,  . 

lecame  insufferable, 
lie,  the  Frenchman 
iper  sighed  for  the 

f  a  language  I "  she 
delightful  French  I 
eminaryl  Why,  I 
lil,  if  you  were  not 
)ve  I  should  be  wiUr 


ing  to  if  I  did  not  hope  soon  to  hear  again  an 
English  voice.      Please  don't  let   me    be    sick 


herel 


;?!■*.'■      j-i>;il.o*ii<»,   *rr«.  ■«» 


"  Here "  was  a  very  pretty  French  town,  and 
June  was  already  sick.  So,  though  her  father 
was  wont  to  indulge  her,  he  refused  to  go  farther, 
really  alarmed  that  his  favorite  child,  usually  so 
well,  should  show  signs  of  such  lassitude  and 
uneasiness.  So,  in  spite  of  Miss  June's  protesta- 
tions, he  started  one  morning  for  a  physician. 

Then  the  willful  girl  arose,  and  persuaded  her 
maid  to  dress  her,  only  to  find  herself  afterwards 
too  ill  to  hold  up  her  head.  She  was  thankful  to 
throw  herself  on  the  bed,  and  gaze  lazily  through 
the  lace  curtains  at  the  changeful  sky.  Vir  -     - 

♦'  O,  for  a  glimpse  of  the  farm-house  !  "  June 
was  really  homesick.  Her  father  tip-toed  into  the 
room,  thinking  she  slept;  but  no!  she  turned 
with  open  eyes  to  greet  him. ^-^^-^  ^  - 

"Alone?  You  dear  fellow!  I'm  so  glad  you 
didn't  bring  a  doctor.  The  sound  of  a  French 
tongue,  just  now,  would  distract  me.    I  am  a&aid 


I 


806 


0T7B  STBBBT. 


I  should  turn  him  out  of  the  room,  or  do  some- 
thing desperate.    Isn't  that  a  knock,  Popsydil  ?  " 

Yes,  it  was  a  knock.  Mr.  Hargreave  addressed 
the  gentleman  he  admitted  as  Dr.  Paul,  and 
introduced  him  to  his  daughter. 

The  new-comer  was  not  a  largo  man,  yet  he  did 
not  impress  you  as  very  small.  There  was  a 
manly  decision,  a  native  dignity  about  him  that 
was  marked,  that  indued  Miss  June  with  a  little 
wholesome  awe  at  the  very  beguining.        i 

He  advanced  into  the  room,  hat  in  hand,  a 
gentleman,  every  inch,  in  appearance  and  dress. 
June  noticed  that  he  was  young,  that  his  spotless 
linen  was  very  becoming.  Then,  with  a  rare, 
bright  sraile,  and  in  the  sweetest  French,  the 
doctor  said:         ■->.  .nx    ax 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  ill,  mademoiselle." 

June  was  at  least  twenty-three  now,  and  might 
reasonably  be  supposed  to  possess  a  little  dignity ; 
but  she  did  burst  forth  in  a  strange  fashion. 
■     "For  pity's  sake,  doctor,  speak  English  if  you 
can  I     I  am  not  a  mademoiselle  I      I    do    not 


«iiiiliipiilii 


m,  or  do  some- 

ock,  Popsydil?" 

[reave  addressed 

Dr.  Paul,  and 

man,  yet  he  did 
.    There  was  a 

about  him  that 
une  with  a  little 
inning.        i 

hat  in  hand,  a 
ranee  and  dress, 
that  his  spotless 
m,  with  a  rare, 
est  French,  the 

I,  mademoiselle." 

I  now,  and  might 

• 

3  a  little  dignity ; 
orange  fashion, 
k  English  if  you 
lie  I      I    do    not 


AFX£B  SOBikPS. 

want   to   be   a   mademoiselle  I      I  am  a  plain 
Yankee  miss,  and  am  so  sick  of  French  I"   -....: 

A  grave  smile  flitted  over  the  doctor's  face,  but 
his  next  words  were  English,  pure,  sweet  English, 
without  the  taint  of  foreign  accent,  .j  ;■■)■:, J 

He  asked  a  few  questions  concerning  her 
health,  very  few,  however ;  the  new  doctor  seemed 
to  understand  his  patient's  mood  instinctively. 
He  talked  a  little  upon  other  topics,  keeping  her 
mind  from  the  prominent  thought  these  weeks  — 
herself.     On  leaving  he  said:  .;,;..    -  .: 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  to  prescribe  a  little"  — 
he  smiled  again,  at  the  slight  frown  June  could 
not  altogether  conceal  at  that  hated  word  "  pre- 
scribe " —  "a  little  quiet.  Don't  eat,  don't 
think,  don't  talk  much.  I  think  that  is  all  to- 
day."       ti-^  ~i  rnv--is  ivy  4^^   ::■:  '.nxtiz  ^t^ 

"Why  I  what  a  delightful  doctor  you  are  I" 
cried  June,  impulsively.  "Such  a  bunch*  of 
charming  negatives,  and  not  a  grain  of  medicine  1 
Dr.  Paul,  I  owe  you  everlasting  thanks,  and  will 
recover  immediately  if  possible."    ma  I      "a** 


808 


OUB  8TBEET. 


Then,  as  the  gentlemau  disappeared  she  said: 
'*  Xow  I  suppose  that  grave  gentleman  is  thinking 
what  a  silly  thing  I  am.  Isn't  he  nice,  Popsydil  ? 
Only,  I  am  really  afraid  of  him.  Did  you  notice 
his  eyes?  They  pierce  right  through  to  tli  ery 
seat  of  disease.  I  was  so  thankful,  wliilu'he  was 
here,  to  remember  I  was  a  good  girl.  Those  eyes 
must  be  such  a  terror  to  evil-doers." 

"  I  fear,  then,  they'll  be  a  terror  to  you  when 
he  comes  again.  Don't  forget  that  prescription 
against  talking.  The  doctor  would  be  very  sorry 
to  be  the  cause  of  his  orders  being  disobeyed^' 

"  Yes ;  but,  Popsydil,  dear,  his  English  was  so 
sweet,  like  the  breath  of  English  violets.  He's 
nice,  like  you."  ,,,-,  ,.,    ^^ir,} 

'*  Six  feet  and  all,"  laughed  Mr.  Hargrea  'e. 

"  Popsydil,  honest  truly,  between  you  and  I,  I 

hate  big  men."    ■  v-:--i7.'  --•:■;   i-'^i'^-  '*r>Yf-"-f -^-i 

"  Ah  I  that  ought  to  be  pleasant  information,'* 

said  the  gentleman,  dubiously.  ^^ 

"  Now  you  know  I  don't  mean  you,  but — well, 

it  seemed  good !    Such  white  teeth  and  clear  skii^ 


m  i»,'i,i.i^Jikt}^^.JiJiig^i^ 


"'^"^"■NPI 


iared  she  said: 
nan  is  thinking 
nice,  Popsydil? 
[)id  you  notice 
gh  to  tl)  ery 
J,  wliilo'he  was 
rl.  Those  eyes 
re." 

)r  to  you  when 
at  prescription 
I  be  very  sorry 
ng  disobeyed." 
E^nglish  was  sq 
violets.    He's 

r.  Hargrea  'e. 
a  you  and  I,  I 

b  information,'* 

ou,  but — well* 
and  clear  skin 


;.-.V4-.- >,,„..  ,.,•,,  'J^-if-'i-^nfttiimJii 


AFTXK  80BAP8. 

and  blue  eyes,  after  so  many  swathy  complexions 

and  black  shiners  was  really  — " 

Mr.  Hargreave  stopped  her  mouth  with  his 

'        ,    *  .  -  -■'■,-- 

"Insulting  child  I     You  shall  surely  make  no 
more  comments  on  your  father."  ""i'.^J■    ;•  ,^1,., 

She  pulled  the   hand  away,  and  kissed  him, 
saying  tenderly:        r:^  ,.  ,>  ;rv,:;;i  ..s;.* ,.  -.at? 

"This  is  the  way  to  stop  me,  always." 

When  the  doctor  called  the  next  day,  he  held  a 
bouquet  of  English  violet  and  a  sprig  of  helio- 
trope in  his  hand.     He  did  not  say  he  brought 
them  for  his  patient,  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  her 
little  stifled  exclamation  of  delight  at  sight  of 
them,  but  he  kindly  forgot  them  when  going; 
left  them,  indeed,  where  he  placed  them  while  he 
felt  her  pulse,  beside    her   pillow,  where  their 
fragrance  filled  her  nostrils.        >  ' >!A4?v  4$  c    ^n.':  - 
■'   The  doctor's  visits  began  to  be  looked  forward 
to,  were  always  talked  over  with  her  father  after- 
wards.   They  continued  steadily  even  after  the 
patient  began  to  convalesce.    The  doctor  lodged 


mmmm 


810 


OUB  BTBKET. 


at  the  same  hotel  with  his  patient,  and  considered 
it  a  pleasure  to  drop  in  occasionally. 

As  our  friend  grew  stronger  she  took  pleasure, 
in  a  quiet  sort  of  way,  in  things  about  her.  Her 
special  delight  grew  to  be  the  music  in  the  par- 
lors below,  and,  stretched  wearily  on  her  couch, 
she  listened  to  the  voices  which  night  after  night 
ascended  to  her  ears  in  magic  song.  Occasionally 
a  sweet  tenor  voice  joined  the  singers,  and  June 
learned  to  listen  eagerly  for  that,  to  be  disap- 
pointed when  it  was  not  heard.  One  day  she 
heard  the  same  voice  in  an  adjoining  apartment, 
singing  a  familiar  English  hymn,  and  that  night 
she  questioned  her  father: ...... 

**Who  is  it  sings  that  delicious  tenor,  Popsy- 
dil?"  -      .^.  ..,  .r- .;-' 

**Why!  don't  you  know?  Your  little  doctor, 
June,  to  be  sure."  '    •    ;.'.    <l? 

As  the  days  went  by.  Dr.  Paul  pasisod  an  occa- 
sional evening  with  Mr.  Hargreave  and  his  daugh- 
ter. There  was  an  ease  in  the  young  doctor's 
manners  very  fascinating  to  June,  a  little  quiet 


.ti'J.>..<. — a^.„n<imri  V-ml^iaiiAi 


ATTEB  SCRAPS. 


811 


and  oonBidered 
lally. 

I  took  pleasiire, 
bout  her.  Her 
sic  in  the  par- 
on  her  couch, 
^ht  after  night 
.  Occasionally 
gers,  and  June 
t,  to  be  disap- 
One  day  she 
ling  apartment, 
and  that  night 

i  tenor,  Popsy- 

ir  little  doctor, 

pasisod  an  occa- 
I  and  his  daugh- 
young  doctor's 
),  a  little  quiet 


authority,  when  acting  professionally,  quite  as 
charming.  But  she  had  never  seen  his  real  self 
until  he  made  these  calls.  Social,  brilliant,  self- 
po.sessed,  gentlemanly,  and  exceedingly  sensitive 
to  thought  and  feeling.       ^    ,      .      ,,,  ^^^ 

Miss  Plargreave  grew  better  rapidly,  but  the 
doctor  commanded  quiet  long  after  she  felt  well 
enough  to  go  out  again.  ;.,..,  ,- ,  i.,,. 

"  Not  this  week.  Miss  Hargreave.  Next  week 
you  may  go  a  little.  If  Monday  is  a  pleasant  day, 
I  will  take  you  to  see  a  little  friend  of  mine,  if 
you  are  willing."       .,,.    ,    ,, ,,_  ^  ,   ,     ,    ^ .     ,; . 

She  was  willing.  Monday  was  a  delicious  day, 
and  June  felt  like  a  bird  escaped  from  bondage. 
The  fresh  blood  was  bounding  through  her  veins 
again,  her  cheeks  were  blooming.  n ,.  ^ 

*'  I  have  a  few  professional  calls  to  make.  Miss 
Hargreave.  You  will  not  mind  them  ?  My  little 
friend  is  crippled  and  poor,  so  "  —  touching  sig- 
nificantly a  large  bouquet  beside  him  —  "  we 
make  Ufa  bloom  for  her  when  we  can."       ,^^,y 

It  was  a  mean  old  house  before  which  the  doo- 


dl2 


0T7B  STRVET. 


tor  drew  up.  Short  as  the  good  man  wan,  he  had 
to  stoop  to  paM  the  door-way.  It  was  a  long, 
dingy  apartment  into  which  he  conducted  Juni- 
per. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  door,  where  the  visitor's 
eyes  first  rested,  sat  a  child  on  a  high  stool,  or 
chair,  rather,  for  it  had  a  back,  behind  a  counter, 
or  work-bench,  on  which  were  various  toys  with 
which  she  was  busy. 

The  child  was  deformed,  her  head  being  drawn 
somewhat  to  one  side,  her  back  disfigured  by  a 
hump.  But  her  face  was  very  striking,  pure  and 
spiritual,  with  large,  dreamy  blue  eyes,  and  the 
noble  head  was  covered  with  a  profusion  of  pale 
gold  hair. 

In  the  same  room,  near  the  child,  a  dark-eyed 
boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  summers  worked,  evi- 
dently the  son  of  a  black-haiied  woman  who  was 
making  toys  in  the  fju  aier  end  of  the  apartment. 

The  little  cripple's  face  lighted  wonderfully  at 
sight  of  Dr.  P»ul,  and  she  uttered  two  or  three 
exclamations  of  delight,  and  stretched  out  her 


AFTKB  BOnAPS. 


818 


an  wo«,  he  Imd 
[t  WU8  a  long, 
mduoted  Juni- 

sre  the  visitor's 

high  stool,  or 

inil  a  counter, 

ious  toys  with 

d  being  drawn 
lisfigured  by  a 
king,  pure  and 
eyes,  and  the 
fusion  of  pale 

Id,  a  dark-eyed 
8  worked,  evi- 
uman  who  was 
the  apartment, 
wonderfully  at 
two  or  three 
^Aihed  out  her 


hands  eagerly  as  she  saw  the  flowers.  At  sight  of 
the  lady  with  him  the  rich  blood  mantled  her 
brow,  and  a  pretty,  beseeching  look  came  into  her 
eyes,  but  the  doctor's  voice  seemed  to  reassijre 
her.  His  words  June  could  not  understand  ;  they 
were  German  ;  but  he  ended  them  by  pronouncing 
her  name  very  distinctly,  "Miss  June  Har- 
greave." 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  to  the  young  lady.  ••  I 
thought  Christy   might  remember  the  first  half 

best." 

Christy  smiled  at  the  lady,  and  June  watched 
the  deft,  thin-veined  fingers  as  they  separated  the 
beautiful  flowers  into  a  dozen  little  clusters,  each 
cluster  a  gem  of  beauty,  then  smoothed  them 
again  into  one  whole.  She  kissed  them  then,  and 
smiled  towards  Dr.  Paul,  who  was  addressing  the 
woman.       ►'.<■'■  *  "»■•■■.'."-■  *■'<■■        t   ■■>-'<  ■■ 

The  child  wished  to  please  her  guest.  She 
tried  to  converse  with  her,  holding  up  the  flowers, 
turning  her  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  at  last  saying, 
very  distinctly,  "America."  .    niijra. 


.f^iAii^ti. 


^tM 


814 


OUE  STBBET.' 


The  young  man  noticed  June's  troubled  fece 
and  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Christy  wishes  to  know  if  God  sends  you 
such  lovely  flowers  in  America,"  he  said.  Then 
he  interpreted  June's  words  for  Christy,  telling 
her  about  American  flowers. 

Theu,  while  June  selected  some  toys  for  her 
little  brother,  he  turned  again  to  the  woman. 
June  smiled  over  her  task.  First  French  to 
Lisette,  then  German  to  Christy,  then  English  to 
herself,  and  each  apparently  perfeci  in  itself. 

" '  Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings 
Thou  hast  ordained  strength.'  That  child's  sim- 
ple trust  in  God  rebukes  me  always,"  said  the 
doctor  as  they  rode  away.  "She  called  those 
flowers  'the  gift  of  God,'  and  thanked  him  on 
receiving  them.  I  am  very  much  interested  in 
her,  Miss  Hargreave.  Jhe  reminds  me  of  a  little 
friend  of  my  boyhood.  I  found  her  in  the  hos- 
pital, laid  very  low  with  a  malignant  fever, 
which  had  already  deprived  her  of  both  parents. 
After  she  giew  better  I  found  her  this  home,  and 
she  is  so  grateful,  so  cheerful  and  happy  I " 


'■M«=,'aaifij)te;-  *i.,,. 


w<»!ai«aaii^.Wmt^faii..^j«»^j4»S^^V'j»a. 


s  troubled  face 

God  sends  you 
he  said.  Then 
Christy,  telling 

le  toys  for  her 
to  the  woman, 
rat  French    to 
hen  English  to 
eci  in  itself, 
and  sucklings 
lat  child's  sim- 
'ays,"  said  the 
e  called  those 
lanked  him  on 
I  interested  in 
i  me  of  a  little 
er  in  the  hos- 
lignant   fever, 
'  both  parents, 
this  home,  and 
I  happy  I " 


AFTER  SCBAP8. 


816 


June  looked  up  to  him  through  beaming  eyes. 
She  did  not  guess  then  what  she  afterwards 
learned  was  true,  that  he  had  taught  the  child  all 
she  knew  of  religion;  but  she  said,  enthusia»- 
tically : 

"  You  are  a  real  physician,  doctor.  It  helps  me 
just  to  know  you.  I  wish  I  had  more  of  Christy's 
simple  trust  and  your  strength." 

That  evening,  sitting  alone  with  her  father,  she 
asked,  suddenly : 

"What  is  he,  father?"      -      .    »  '  -^  v;^ 

9-  "Who?"  >  .   "  ■     ■ 

^  "My  little  doctor."       "«    •;     ^     ;  .w         ; 

"A  Christian  gentleman,  June,  if  I  fe>  a 
judge." 

"So  he  is,  Popsydil,  and  he  makes  Christianity 
look  very  inviting,  does  he  not?  and  without 
saying  much,  either.  One  is  constantly  puzzled 
which  to  admire  most;  his  gentlemanly  bearing, 
fine  intellect,  or  Christian  heart.  Am  I  not 
right?"  "'  ,.•■  T'-^.. -*;•;■ -r- ;--^-.^  --  •-  ■.  :.w  .k  u*  v^^  ■ 
■'  "Undoubtedly,  June."        w     s    •       ■ 


-op  ^, 


riUMi 


oi 


OITB  8TBEET. 


"  But  I  was  thinking  of  something  else  when  I 
asked  my  question.  He  is  a  "triangle  in  more 
senses  than  one.  This  morning,  for  instance. 
One  moment  he  spoke  French  to  Madame  Lisette, 
the  next  German  to  little  Christy,  and  then 
English  to  me ;  and  I'm  sure  he  spoke  each  as  if 
it  was  his  native  tong^ue.  What  is  he,  papa?" 
"Why  don't  you  ask  him,  June?"  and  Mr. 
Hargreave  smiled  curiously. 

"Mel  Why,  Popsydil,  I  wouldn't  dare  to, 
quite.  He's  real  good  and  kind,  but  — I  am  just 
a  little  bit  afraid  of  him.  He  might  think  it 
unwarrantable  curiosity."  ,,,.... 

"  Then  I  fear  you  must  go  unsatisfied,"  was  all 
her  father's  reply. 

After  that  June  became  much  interested  in  the 
crippled  toy-maker,  and  visited  her  often.  Some- 
times with  Dr.  Paul,  sometimes  alone,  and  once 
she  persuaded  her  father  to  accompany  her.  By 
means  of  signs,  the  little  French  Christy  pos- 
sessed, and  a  few  fragments  of  broken  English, 
they  managed  to  communicate  with  each  other ; 


iM£^ftia^VM^Mt£Ei^)«i^b»#<.-x^««s«*»^  *«jrt)i«iMiifai<MAi?wit>i-'wliiMhiitii  iwbfhaiawWilWwArifaWwMiW* 


ig  else  when  I 
mgle  in  more 
for  instance, 
idame  Lisette, 
ty,  and  then 
)ke  each  as  if 
B  he,  papa?" 
B?"  and  Mr. 

dn't  dare  to, 
it  —  I  am  just 
light  think  it 

fied,"  was  all 

jrested  in  the 
jften.  Some- 
one, and  once 
iny  her.  By 
Christy  pos- 
ken  English, 
each  other; 


Mala 


AFTEB  SCBAP8. 


817 


and  June  seldom  went  without  some  slight  gift, 
never  came  away  without  having  received  ben- 
efit. 

Numerous  and  various  were  June's  little  offer- 
ings. Fruits,  flowers,  and  occasionally  bookfi 
were  pressed  into  service,  and  one  day,  to  Dr. 
Paul's  surprise,  a  huge  cage,  with  a  gay-colored 
parrot,  was  hoisted  into  the  carriage. 

A  smile  flitted  across  his  face  which  did  not 
escape  June's  quick  eyes,  slight  as  it  was,  and 
soon  repressed.  -..;'.•,;  ...p 

"  You  must  not  laugh,  doctor,"  she  said.  "  The 
parrot  was  brought  up  by  a  German  woman,  and 
speaks  that  language.  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
comfort  to  Christy  when  she  was  lonely,  and  no 
one  by  who  could  speak  to  her."      »:     i  »    »    , 

"You  are  quite  right  and  very  thoughtful," 
replied  the  young  man,  gently.  "  No  other  gift 
could  please  her  as  well."       i  i^;;„  Bfy-cis^j^fftas 

The  days  now  passed  fleet-footed  to  June.  Her 
fiither  had  heard  no  more  of  home,  though  it  was 
two  months  since  she  declared  herself  dying  for  a 


iwNiftiBttiiiiWiiyffiiitfiii 


iMn 


8t8 


OUR  STBBE7'. 


Bight  of  American  soil.  He  dared  suggest  this  to 
her  in  a  teasing  way,  one  night,  inquiring  if  she 
was  not  now  quite  willing  to  depart. 

"Whatl  and  leave  my  little  doctor?"  she 
cried,  lugubriously.  Nevertheless,  after  that  they 
quite  talked  of  going. 

A  few  days  after  this  the  doctor  invited  June  to 
accompany  him  on  a  ride  into  the  country.  "I 
have  a  few  hours  to  spare.  Your  society  will  add 
much  to  their  pleasure,"  he  said.    So  she  went. 

It  was  a  delightful  spot  where  they  halted. 
Leaving  the  carriage  they  strolled  off  after 
flowers.  Long  after  the  doctor  had  wearied  of 
this  sport  and  returned  to  the  horse,  June  still 
flitted  about,  adding  to  her  store.  mi- 

"See!  they  are  for  Christy.  Are  they  not 
beautiful  ?  "  she  cried,  holding  them  up  for  his 
inspection.  Then  she  stopped,  partly  because  of 
a  certain  something  in  his  earnest  glance,     ^t^ 

"  Juniper,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand  to  her, 
and  she  started.  Surely,  she  had  not  heard  that 
same  before  since  leaving  home.    "  Juniper,  your 


iMn 


uggest  this  to 
quiring  if  she 
art. 

loctor?"  she 
ifter  that  they 

ivited  June  to 

country.    "  I 

cjiety  will  add 

So  she  went. 

they  halted. 

ed    off    after 

id  wearied  of 

L'se,  June  still 

Vre  they  not 
m  up  for  his 
ly  hecause  of 
glance.  ^,  ,i^ 
hand  to  her, 
ot  heard  that 
Juniper,  your 


AFTER  SCHAPS. 

father  talks  of  departure.  You  are  very  dear  to 
me,  very  necessary.  Will  you  —  dare  you  prom- 
ise to  be  my  wife?" 

It  was  very  sudden,  startling.  June  did  not 
touch  the  extended  hand,  and  avoided  the  asking 
eyes.  ,_,„..„  „,  .:■ „,.  ,^-.-^-.- 

*'  O,  Dr.  Paul,  you  don't  mean  it,  surely  I  *'  she 
said,  piteooRly.  -  .  .^         -    ,.     ,    .;         - 

"I  fetar  I  do,"  he  said,  smiling.        v   'ns  5^*v 

**0  dear!  what  shall  I  do?  I  thought  i/ou 
were  different  from  other  men.  Whj!  I  ran 
away  from  America  to  get  rid  of  Cousin  Harold, 
and  now  —  But  there  1  Harold  has  nearly  for- 
gotten.   Men  don't  feel  very  deeply — ^you  will  —  " 

She  raised  her  eyes,  intending  to  add  "forget 
this  soon ; "  but  that  earnest,  quiet  glance,  so 
different  from  any  she  had  ever  met  before,  re- 
buked her,  and  she  said,  instead,  "You  will 
please  say  you  don't  really  mean  it,  doctor?' 

The  young  man  smiled  again,  a     u.  •  ..t'  -. 

"I  cannot  say  that.  Juniper.  I  do  mean  it, 
most  certainly.      But  do    not  distress  yourself. 


niafe 


■W'-Sii',' 


m 


OUB  BTBEBT. 


Speak  the  truth.  I  can  bear  it.  Much  as  I  love 
you,  I  would  not  care  to  wed  you  without  your 
love." 

"But  —  but—  O  dear!  Why  are  men  so 
anxious  to  get  married?" 

"  I  did  not  know  that  they  were.  I  have  not 
been  particularly  so  myself,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 
But  unheeding  it  June  went  on  ruefully: 

*'  And  I  don't  see  how  you  can  expect  me  to  — 
to  — Dr.  Paul.  Why  I  I'd  as  soon  think  of  mar- 
rying my  own  father!  There!"  —  as  a  comical 
look  crossed  his  features  — "  not  that  you  are  so 
old,  you  know,  because  you  are  not,  but  —  but  — 
why,  I'm    almost    afraid    of    you,  you    are    so 

The  mouth  parted  in  a  real  smile  now. 

"  I  assure  you  that  there  is  no  need  that  you 
should  be  afraid  of  me,  Juniper,"  he  said.   5,    „.. 

"  No,  I  know ;  but  — but  I  can't  help  it  all  the 
same.  I  do  so  hate  to  make  people  miserable, 
and  I  suppose  it'll  be  just  like  you  to  be  miserable 
forever  now." 


s 

s 

V  f 

s! 
ai 

0) 


imMihm 


[uch  as  I  love 
.  without  your 

y  are  men  so 

.  I  have  not 
e  quiet  reply. 
uefuUy : 
pect  me  to  — 
think  of  mar- 
-as  a  comical 
at  you  are  so 
,  but  —  but  — 

you    are    so 
•  *  ,.., ^-,..  ,,^^ 
ile  now. 
need  that  you 

he  said.        ,v 
belp  it  all  the 
)le  miserable, 
>  be  miserable 


AFTBB  SCBAPS. 


iJ. 


"I  shall  not  dare  to  promise  you  that  I"  he 
said.    "I  certainly  shall  not  be  if  God  will  help  ' 
me  otherwise.    My  work  lies  still  before  me,  the  ' 
world  needs  me  as  much  as  it  ever  did.    I  did  not 
intend  that  either  your  'yea'  or   'nay'  should  " 
deter  me  from  duty,  Miss  June.    I  shall  live  my 
life,  by  God's  help,  whatever  he  sends.    I  am  not  ' 
unused  to  disappointment.    Shall  we  turn  home- 
ward now?"  '■"*'■■■  -V'" —•'.'u  "■•-».:*".-«-  %i':-i^  ..  i^y,.i'^ 

Yes,  June  was  very  ready.  Wished  heartily 
she  had  not  lingered,  that  they  had  gone  home  an 
hour  ago,  before  this  conversation  commenced. 

Perhaps  he  read  her  thought.  He  certt-xuly 
aid  his  best  to  divert  her  mind  to  other  channels, 
appearing  very  like  the  Dr.  Paul  wio  had  not 
spoken  those  burning  words.      "^*  t  ^'"^  "-  '^^ 

He  succeeded  very  well,  too.  June  almost 
forgot,  for  a  while,  until,  on  nearing  the  house, 
she  encountered  again  those  earnest  eyes.      "^^ 

"You  never  forget,  do  you,  doctor?"  she 
asked,  half  timidly,  as  he  assisted  her  from  the 
carriage.    '    [■       •■/^^  •-;,-:--■,•'.    -•  ■-    :^-w^xi-wmmk. 


^A^yjij^i^ig^l^i,^^ 


822 


OFil  8TBEBT. 


"Not  often,"  ho  replied,  simply.  "Lie  down 
and  roBt  as  Boon  as  you  remove  your  wrups. 
You  will  need  it  after  this  long  ride.  Good 
afternoon." 

Just  like  him!  Kind  and  thoughtful  of 
her  comfort  continually,  and  just  like  him,  too, 
to  he  BO  kind  and  gentle,  as  if  his  refusal  had 
not  been  I 

June  disobeyed  his  directions  by  sitting  right 
down  in  the  first  chair  that  came  to  hand,  and 
having  a  good  cry. 

"Hateful  old  thing!  Why  did  he  ask  me  if 
he  didn't  want  me?  He's  just  like  the  rost  of 
them,  though  I  thought  he  wasn't.  I  suppose  he 
thinks  I  am  a  silly  little  fool  anyway,  and  is 
glad  he  escaped  me  in  time.  Well,  I  am  a  fool, 
everybody  knows  that,  and  —  and  of  course  I  am 
not  sorry.  Who'd  want  a  pair  of  eyes  reading 
right  through  all  their  silliness  all  the  time? 
O,  dear!  I  wonder  if  he  did  see  that  —  that  I 
was  a&aid  all  the  time  that  I  did  like  him  a 
wee  bit  better  than  anyone  else?    We'll  see  if 


■.■.-x  [ii«  an  Wii  iiif  iii  tf.jBiiM 


iijiiiftMilWIIiilii 


wmmmmmm^mm^mmmmm 


wmsmmmsmmmmmmmBmi^^-- 


dtam 


y.  "Lie  down 
e  your  wrups, 
g  ride.     Good 

thoughtful    of 

like  him,  too, 

his  refusal  had 

1>7  sitting  right 
ke  to  hand,  and 

I  he  ask  me  if 
Ike  the  rbst  of 
I  suppose  he 
anyway,  and  is 
ill,  I  am  a  fool, 
of  course  I  am 
of  eyes  reading 

all  the  time? 
9  that  —  that  I 

did  like  him  a 
?    We'll  see  if 


AFTBB  SCBAPS. 

anyone  shall  walk  straight  into  my  heart,  and 
do  as  they  please,  and  never  even  say,  'With 
your  leave,  miss  I'  Fm  not.  used  to  such  lord- 
ing'" V:-'^-^^  '■"  ..  ■  :  ^^■-■^■-f^r^ 
And  Dr.  Paul,  riding  along,  smUed  to  himself 
as  he  said:               „...^*-  ,s-?„,\-  ;..;'•--;:,  pi,:^u^    ^  'v^/i 


"My  little  June!" 


Vt':<'>->.>  .■■■;i„. 


'-'^'<'  •   ,.  '*V'1? 


'     Jjl.     ». 


'  "    -     "       i     ^^«.•  Jr 


'      'J!' 


i  1    ^    ft 


"! 


:t'f  i    ^' 


fL  .fi 


ma^wiiiiiii'i 


mm 


)!.-;,-:^ 


.<■) 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ENDINGS. 


.I'M  ^i 


y^F  course  Miss  June  petitioned  at  Onoe  td 
^^-^  return  to  America,  and  of  course  Mr. 
Hargreave  opened  his  eyes  and  said  demurely: 
"What I  and  leave  your  little  doctor?"  And 
then  Miss  June  hlazed  out  with:  —  she  hoped 
she'd  never  see  his  .  ice  again  I  and  worried 
incessantly  for  the  next  two  days  lest  her  wish 
shoiild  be  gratified.  -    -      ,. 

"  A  difficult  case  kept  me  away  from  home," 
he  said  on  appearing,  and  was  so  like  his  olden 
self  that  Juniper  was  almost  ready  to  believe  that 
afternoon's  scene  the  conjuring  of  her  own  brain. 
Their  intercourse  was  by  no  means  interrupted 
8M 


WC^«i^i.!BW.8l>MUWI»W'8iJ'^WAtMMlHII|[t^^ 


irill>lu<llllT> Wk 


^msmmmm^mmmmmmmmmmm 


.'■'■-   ;♦;  .  .*■) 
'!    J*  ■-;;■;    '■  'i  :'i.;'  ^. 
.     .  .•  ■> 

,1'.-,      ^i 

led  at  onoe  to 
>f  course  Mr. 
aid  demurely : 
loctor?"  And 
:  —  she  hoped 
and  wonied 
lest  her  wish 

r  from  home," 
like  his  olden 
to  believe  that 
Her  own  brain, 
ns  interrupted 


EMDINGS, 

or  changed.  Since  he  treated  her  just  the  same, 
she  could  see  no  reasons  to  refuse  his  kindly 
invitations  here  and  there,  and  two  weeks  more 
passed,  for  Mr.  Hargreave  seemed  in  no  hurry  to 
depart. 

But  at  last  the  day  of  departure  was  set,  and 
Juniper  shed  a  few  tears  in  secret,  without  con- 
fessing tlie  reason,  even  to  herself;  and  gathered 
together  an  array  of  faded  bouquets  and  other 
knick-knacks  for  preservation,  with  a  very  mourn- 
ful countenance.  .j-      <m/:.  .  :^  ,^  ,i»r»i 

A  few  evenings  before  then:  intended  depart- 
ure. Dr.  Paul  dropped  in  upon  the  pair,  welcome 

as  USUal.>«»""4-iyi^.«ft-f?    .ijf-^..^^^^:ui,    g;,..^,t    ry^u 

A  casual  remark  of  Mr.  Hargreave's  in  respect 
to  their  speedy  departure,  brought  a  shade  to  the 
young  man's  face  whicli  June's  quick  eyes  dis- 
covered. A  little  after  Mr.  Hargreave  was 
summoned  to  the  parlor  to  see  a  visitor — a  very 
unusual  occurrence  —  and,  excusing  himself,  left 
June  and  the  doctor  alone.  »^s^4  »?i  i.-rr^^*fJ«3li5 
'    The  young  man  arose  and  paced   the   room 


■4iiw»^iM«>*iMw.w^..wfcmwiMaumjaiiMyM^^ 


■iMi 


826 


Oim  STBEKT. 


bftck  and  forth  several  times.  He  did  not  look  at 
June,  but  she  felt  very  guilty,  and  when  ho 
stopped  before  her  she  was  inwardly  trembling. 

"June,"  he  said,  "I  put  myself  in  your  hands 
again." 

"  What  a  persistent  man  you  are.  Dr.  Paul  I " 

"  Am  I  ?  Well,  i^rsistency  is  a  good  thing  in 
a  good  cause.  Besides,  I  think  you  made  a  mis- 
take when  you  refused  me  the  other  day,  June." 

"A  mistake?  Doctor,  I  am  astonished  I" 
Miss  June  was  a  wee  bit  indignant. 

♦»  Yes,"  quietly,  gravely.  "  You  spoke  quickly, 
aud  without  weighing  the  matter.  Your  answer 
was  that  of  impulse.  You  had  not  studied  your 
own  heart.  You  have  since  —  have  you  not? 
and  I  think  I  am  not  mistaken  in  saying  you  find 
I  have  a  place  there." 

He  spoke  so  quif  tly,  yet  so  surely,  as  a  man 
convinced  of  his  ground,  that  June  could  not 
really  be  as  provoked  as  she  wished  to  be. 

"Are  you  not  taking  too  much  for  granted, 
doctor?"   she  began  however,  warmly. 


rfhMbi 


XNDINOB. 


827 


did  not  look  at 

and  when    ho 

rdly  trembling. 

in  your  hands 

re,  Dr.  Paul  I" 
good  thing  in 
lu  made  a  mis- 
ler  day,  June." 
1  astonished  I  '* 
nt. 

spoke  quickly, 

Your  answer 

t  studied  your 

lave  you  not? 

saying  you  find 

irely,  as  a  man 
ane  could  not 
led  to  be. 
h  for  granted} 
rmly. 


»♦  Not  more  than  I  wish  you  to  grant,"  he  an- 
swered quickly,  smiling  into  her  face.  "  June, 
be  true  to  yourself — I  would  not  have  you  other- 
^if^ — but  bo  true  to  me  also.  Do  not  send  me 
away  for  a  whim.  I  offer  you  no  half-heart,  I 
assure  you  —  I  ask  no  half-heart  in  return ;  but  I 
want  an  honest  decision.  I  have  a  right  to  it. 
Think  before  you  speak  again." 

When  Dr.  Paul  spoke  in  this  tone  persons  were 
wont  to  obey.  June  was  no  exception  to  thia 
rule.  She  did  not  look  up  now  or  speak.  She 
felt  his  keen  eyes  scare  iig  her  face,  and  feared 
them.  Her  cheeks  grew  rosy  beneath  his  glance, 
her  lips  trembled. 

He  turned  away. 
:      •*  I  will  not  constrain  you,"  he  said.     "  I  would 
not,  for  the  world,  draw  you  by.  any  other  than 
the  cords  of  love." 

He  walked  to  a  window  and  peered  out  into  the 
darkness.    After  awhile  he  sought  her  side  again. 
,  , ,  "Well,  June?"  he  whispered,  questioningly. 
"You  are  right,"  she  said,  with  a  half  sob; 


mm 


828 


OUB  STEBET. 


then,  throwing  her  arms  suddenly  about  his 
bowed  neck,  she  cried,  "Take  every  bit  of  me. 
I've  belonged  to  you  this  month  back." 

It  was  rather  a  predicament  for  Mr.  Hargreavo 
to  open  the  door  upon  this  scene,  but  he  did. 
The  young  man's  face  flushed  a  little,  but  he  did 
not  look  otherwise  disconcerted.  He  had  no 
time  for  words.  June  stopped  them  by  springing 
to  Hex  father's  side  and  twining  the  arms  so  lately 
about  the  doctor  s  neck  around  his. 

"  Not  a  word,  you  precious  old  hateful  Popsy- 
dil  I "  she  said.    "  If  you  had  not  left  the  room  it 
never  wo-Ud  have  happened  I     Anyway,  there's 
no  use  in  resisting  fate,  and  he's  a  terribly  per- 
sistent man.    Then  you  know,  if  you  must  give 
me  away,  you'd  rather  give  me  to  him  than  to 
any  other  man  living!" 
And  Mr.  Hargreave  did  not  deny  this. 
"To  think,"  said  June  to  her    father,  hours 
after,  « to  think  I'd  be  willing  to  become  Mrs. 
Paul  just  for  love  I     O,  Popsydil,  isn't  it  ridio- 
ulous?" 


'<  fe-T©;»ife*ia.»,»ik'iffitei#'vi  SW(!i?»i;s.?wftS** 


^tm 


ENDINGS. 


^29 


inly  about  his 
ery  bit  of  me. 
back." 

Mr.  Hargreave 
»e,  but  he  did. 
fctle,  but  he  did 
He  had  no 
m  by  springing 
arms  so  lately 
s. 

lateful  Popsy- 
sft  the  room  it 
iyway,  there's 
a  terribly  per- 
ou  must  give 
)  him  than  to 

ny  this, 
father,  hours 
become  Mrs. 
isn't  it  ridio- 


"What  ridiculous?.  Mrs.  Dr.  Paul  Howard? 
By  no  means.  It  is  a  good  name  and  a  very 
noted  one.  Surely"  —  answering  the  look  of 
surprise  on  his  daughter's  face  —  "surely  you 
knew  he  was  the  son  of  old  Dr.  David  Howard, 
and  was  only  called  Dr.  Paul  to  distinguish  him 
from  the  elder  ?  The  old  gentleman  died  a  year 
since,  but  the  people  cling  to  the  title." 

"When  did  you  Icirn  all  that,  Popsydil?"  ' 
"O,  a  month  or  two  ago,  when  I  found  my 
little  girl  was  getting  uncommonly  interested  in 
the  medicine  man.  Heyl  not  blushing?  It 
didn't  take  the  most  acute  perception  to  discover 
that.  Puss,  but  I'm  more  than  satisfied  with  your 
choice."  :.,    .      .         .         -      - 

The  journey  to  America  was  delayed  one 
steamer.  The  doctor  declared  he  had  only  been 
waiting  a  favorable  opportunity  to  visit  America, 
and  it  was  decided  unanimously  that  the  wedding 
should  take  place  at  the  farm-house.  *.  •"■:' 

June  seemed  very  proud  of  her  choice  when  he 


mmm 


mmm 


880 


OITB  STBEET. 


really  became  such,  and  shpwed  it  in  a  variety  of 
odd  ways,  very  amusing  to  both  gentlemen.  She 
was  very  particular  not  to  write  a  word  home 
about  ^er  doctor,  and  charged  her  father  to  keep 
her  secret  when  he  wrote  to  his  wife  by  the 
steamer  which  should  have  carried  them.  Yet» 
strange  to  say,  the  whole  household  were  watching 
eagerly  for  their  coming,  and  all  expected  the 
stranger.  ,    ,     . 

Miss  Rose  herself  had  superintended  the  sweep- 
ing, airing  and  decorating  of  the  spare  chamber, 
had  filled  the  vases  with  fresh  roses,  and  waited  at 
the  gate,  a  tall,  graceful  girl,  robed  in  white,  with 
bright  curls  fastened  away  from  her  face,  as  the 
carriage  drove  up.  a  ,,    ,  ;!;.!,>:.-  ta'ijop^  ■ 

On  the  piazza  Mrs.  Hargreave  and  her  boy,  in 
holiday  attire,  and  Aunt  Myra,  arrayed  in  stiff 
black  silk,  awaited  company.  Doctor  sounded 
well  to  Aunt  Myra.  She  had  rolled  it  over  her 
tongue  a  hundred  times  that  day,  always  adding  a 
wonder  as  to  June's  being  so  sensible.  Yes,  the 
whole  household  awaited  the  guest;  even  Tom 


m* 


BNDINOS. 


881 


in  a  variety  of 
ntlemen.  She 
a  word  home 
father  to  keep 

wife  by  the 
d  them.  Yet> 
were  watching 

expected  the 

led  the  sweep- 
pare  chamber, 
and  waited  at 
in  white,  with 
)r  face,  as  the 

id  her  boy,  in 
rayed  in  stiff 
>ctor  sounded 
»d  it  over  her 
>vays  adding  a 
ble.  Yes,  the 
t;  even  Tom 


and  Jetty  watched  for  a  glimpse  of  Miss  June's 

beau.        -■■'■^^-^■,u},     ■•yr- 


^^\:M-'*i'''' *''-*'*"- '5  ■ 


Kiis  i^kv;*  ri  n}:4'i 


Rose  intended  to  be  very  proper  indeed,  and 
put  out  her  hand  in  grand  style ;  but  the  "  little 
big  doctor,"  as  she  dubbed  him,  upset  all  this  by 
kissing  her  heartily,  and  saying,  "  Why  1  Primrose 
is  quite  a  young  lady."     .^s' -^  •^  v  rfs^;  -j  •s:;;?:;/,* 

The  indignant  miss  flashed  angry  eyes  at  her 
sister,  and  whispered,  at  the  first  opportunity, 
"I'll  pay  you  off  for  telling  him  I  was  called 
Primrose,  when  I  haven't  answered  to  the  name 
these  years ! "  And  in  spite  of  June's  surprised 
"  I  never  told  him  I  He's  the  funniest  man  liv- 
ing I  He  just  knows  everything  I "  Rose  was 
neither  mollified  or  convinced.      :  ;u-;;^  MS^-inm-' 

Aunt  Myra  liked  his  looks.  "  Steddy  and 
airnest,  with  somethin'  to  do  in  the  world.  It's 
jest  Burprisin'  that  that  fly-away  should  git  him  !  " 
was  her  comment  that  night  to  her  brother.  As 
to  Mrs.  Hargreave,  her  heart  was  won  by  that 
first  tender  greeting.  vs'    ar  >5-  Afsirj^w 

He  kissed  her  cheek,  and  said  "mother"  in 


■MiiMHiBMia 


882 


OITB  8TBKET. 


Buch  a  tone  that  June,  just  behind,  felt  tears 
spring  to  her  eyes;  and  he  added,  pathetically, 
"  It  is  a  blessed  privilege,  denied  me  many  years, 
of  calling  any  mortal  by  that  sacred  name.  I 
trust  I  shall  deserve  this  blessing  I " 

All  had  a  greeting,  even  Jetty  and  Tom,  whom 
Rose  introduced  to  her  brother  to  be.  They 
liked  his  appearance,  and  the  doctor  was  conscious 
all  that  day  of  Jetty's  eyes  fixed  keenly  on  him, 
whenever  she  entered  his  presence 

He  was  surely  soon  at  home.  Before  •nightfall 
he  had  visited  every  portion  of  the  farm,  and 
become  acquainted  with  every  living  creature. 
Or,  as  June  said,  "  Renewed  acquaintance ;  for  I 
believe  you  have  always  known  whatever  I  have. 
You  act  as  if  you  had,"  she  eaid,  half-provoked, 
because  he  had  called  the  cat,  over  which  he  stum- 
bled, by  her  right  name,  "Aunt  Martha;"  a 
name,  like  her  color  and  size,  descended  from  her 
mother  and  grandmother,     u.   -  „,      ,        „, 

"I  am  a  lucky  hit,"  he  said,  smiling.  "And 
this  is  a  real  gypsy,"  patting  the  back  of  June's 
long-loved  pony. 


-w'ltititiiii 


ii.iiiilinw»ii 


■HP 


u^M 


ind,  felt  tears 
,  pathetically, 
e  many  years, 
;red  name.    I 

li  Tom,  whom 
o  be.  They 
was  conscious 
Benly  on  him, 

fore  -nightfall 
he  farm,  and 
ing  creature, 
ntance ;  for  I 
tever  I  have, 
lalf-provoked, 
hich  he  stum- 
Martha  J "  a 
Jed  from  her 

ling.     »*  And 
ck  of  June's 


XKDINQS. 


888 


♦'  There  it  is  again  1  Too  true  to  be  all  tuition," 
cried  the  girl  laughing.  '*  .You  shall  not  go  near 
the  city  without  me,  or  you  will  know  all  my 
friends  before  I  introduce  them." 

About  a  week  after  their  arrival  June  proposed 
a  visit  to  Bryony.  It  was  a  lovely  morning,  and 
when  June  presented  herself  at  the  door  the 
doctor  stood  waiting,  a  beautiful  bouquet  in  his 
hand. 

"Your  little  friend  loves  flowers,"  he  said. 
"  All  children  do,  especially  if  invalid."  And  ho 
handed  her  into  the  carriage  as  she  exclaimed, 
"How  thoughtful  you  are,  Paul!"    ., ,.       :      „ 

Jetty,  who  had  joined  Tom,  stood  looking  after 
the  carriage.       ,  .   ;.v^...v«  -;-<.*■••■ -^j-  .-•^.'.^ >■  :-,^-. .  ^.w.. 

"He's  a  gentleman,  every  inch,"  iiaid  Tom, 
thoughtfully,  "yet  as  hearty  and  cheory  as  an 
old  friend.    He  keeps  making  me  think  of  some^> 
body  else."  -.■.-.x  :.,n-  ...mm 

"  That's  it ! "  retiirned  his  wife,  quickly.  "  Just 
like  an  old  friend,  and  jret  so  different."      i 

Our  little  Bry  I    How  natural  still  to  call  her  t 


■  i\'-  : 


m.vyB9mmmwiani\nm*i^»mtDAi's^ 


S84 


OUB  STBEET. 


this  I  Yet  she  is  no  longer  a  child.  Small  she  b 
—  always  will  be ;  but  by  no  means  as  small  as  in 
other  days,  neither  is  she  quite  so  much  of  an 
invalid.  She  can  move  with  less  pain  than  for- 
merly. The  old  sweet  spirit,  grown  strong,  is 
still  about  her,  as  she  sits  in  the  bay-window  of 
her  cottage,  full  of  flowers,  singing  to  herself,  this 
morning. 

"I  wonder  they  don't  come.    I  do  want  to  see 

Miss  June's  doctor,"  she  sighed.    "But — but 

I  hope  I'm  not  selfish  —  I  did  want  Ikey  boy  to 
get  her,  seeing  he  loved  her  so  well.  Strange  he 
never  comes  back  or  writes  one  word  I  Harkl 
There's  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  I  the  door- 
bell I  I  believe  it  is  June  and  her — "  and  little 
Bry  started  to  her  feet,  leaning  on  her  crutches, 
with  a  sweet,  flushed,  expectant  face. 

Yes,  it  was  June,  bringing  a  whole  sumaer  full 
of  robins  and  blossoms  in  her  breezy  step  and 
cooii.g  voice.  Bry  clung  to  her  neck,  actually 
shedding  tears,  afraid  to  look  up  at  the  stranger, 
80  soon  to  take  her  firiend  away  again. 


Small  she  is 
as  small  as  in 
)  much  of  an 
pain  than  for- 
wu  strong,  is 
bay-window  of 
to  herself,  this 

9  want  to  see 
♦But— but— 
b  Ikey  boy  to 
1.  Strange  he 
rord  I  Hark  1 
bIs!  the  door- 
-"  and  little 

her  crutches, 
.ce.       --:  ,..-„-. 
3  surmer  full 
eezy  step  and 
leck,  actually 

the  stranger, 
again. 


nrDmos. 

"Why,  little  Bryl  You  naughty  girl  I  Cry- 
ing, when  I  want  you  to  be  your  brightest,  most 
comfortable,  to  welcome  my  nice  doctor.  Come 
here.  Dr.  Paul,  and  tell  this  little  girl  how  glad 
you  are  to  see  her.  You  must  make  a  good 
impression,  for  her  opinion  goes  very  far  with  me." 

There  was  small  need  to  call  the  doctor.  He 
had  sprung  eagerly  towards  the  child,  and  only 
waited  her  lifted  face.  Now  he  took  both  her 
hands  in  his  with  an  earnest,  tender  glauce.  She 
was  devouring  him  with  her  eyes,  a  flush  of  eager 
excitement  covering  her  pale  cheeks. 

"  Bryony,  little  Bry,  this  is  too  much  for  you  1 
he  said  tenderly,  placing  her  gently  in  her  chair, 
and  kissing  her  brow  and  lips ;  but  she  clung  to 
him  convulsively,  and  sobbed  hysterically.  June 
stood  speechless  and  astonished,  while  his  sooth- 
ing hand  smoothed  the  head  bowed  on  his  bosom. 

"It's  not 'cause  I'm  sorry,  but — so — so  com- 
fortable I "  Bry  said  at  length,  lifting  her  head. 
"  And  I'm  ashamed  that  I  didn't  trust  Him  alto- 
gether when  he  says:  ^^Ail  tl^ngs  whatsoever  ye 


MNiiii 


saa 


OUB  STREET. 


eak.'  I've  asked  every  day  since  you  went,  thnt 
you  should  come  back,  and  Miss  June  should  love 
you;  and  yet,  when  they  said  'twas  Dr.  Howard  I 
did  doubt.  It  was  the  strange  name,  you  see; 
but~bi\'-  you  are  my  own  Ikoy  boy,  and  I'm  so 
—  so  thnnkful ! "  and  Bry's  full  heart  trembled  to 
tears  again. 

June  was  sorely  puzzled.  "  Come  back  1  strange 
name  I  Jkey  boy ! "  She  did  not  aaderstand  this 
talk,  neither  tha  radiant  face  of  the  man  she  loved. 
He  drew  her  gently  towards  him,  reading  her 
bewilderment. 

"  Dr.  Paul  Howard  was  only  Dr.  David  How- 
ard's adopted  son.  I  shall  not  be  less  dear  as 
Isaac  Paul  Hobson,  shall  I,  June?"  he  asked» 
tenderly.  ._^ 


1-4:'' r'J  jT;.   ■'-,:i -vr,*.!. 


.*it 


She  struggled  In  his  embrace,  and,  freeing  her- 
self,  studied  his  face  scrutinizingly.    .i.,^iv.i- -0 

"  Yes,  it  is  I "  she  said,  convinced,  "  yet  T  can't 
believe  it.     Paul,  you  have  deceived  me."     -  --' 

"H.ive  I,  June?  Be  hon-st.  Am  I  not  all  I 
ever  represented  myself  to  be  ?    Have  I  ai  'thing 


~M.iM'ivT  'Vife  ■■ 


MMM 


imp 


70X1  went,  thnt 
ne  should  love 
Dr.  Howard  I 
ime,  you  see ; 
ly,  and  I'm  so 
rt  trembled  to 

back  I  btrangd 
ider8tand  this 
uan  she  loved. 
,  reading  her 

.  David  How- 
I  less  dear  as 
?"  he  asked, 

,  freeing  her- 

'*  yet  T  can't 
ed  me."  4  v  iw 
n  I  not  all  I 
/e  I  ai  'thijig 


KNDWOS. 

to  lose  by  this  divulgence?  If  so,  could  I  not 
have  avoided  this  meeting,  or  married  you  while 
in  France?  I  willed  you  should  know  this,  love, 
but  I  wished  you  to  be  sure  of  your8elf,  unbiased 
by  circumstances."..       .  ,  v     •  - 

She  laughed.  "  You  are  my  own  Dr.  Paul,  I 
see,  Howard  or  Hobson.  To  think!  the  boy  I 
found  swung  headlong  from  a  beam,  trying  to 

lengthen  himself  I".  .. . ■■•.■,. 

, .♦*  And  all  for  love  of  you  I "  he  laughed.    «« Ah, 
June,  you  could  not  know  its  strength  then." 
"  No ;  but  I  did  realize  your  love  for  books  full 
of  horrible  skeletons."  «  -     ;,....    .  .       r,. 

They  dined  with  Ellice  that  day,  Dick's  amaze-" 
ment  being  as  large  at  his  sister's  recognition  of 
Ike,  as  at  that  gentleman's  strange  transforma- 
tion.   In  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  the  visitors 
turned  homeward.  ii^r-   -.'«.'*.;  r  ,^ii'./-i;  (jy»F3 

"  Paul,  I've  a  good  mind  to  turn  you  oi3F  now," 
said  June,  as  she  nestled  close  to  his  side.  ""'"^ 

"You  had  better  cheat  yourself  to  tease  me  1 " 
he    returned,  laughingly.     "June,  I   wish  you' 


^ii'iimmiiiiiiiiiirf*!    ■ 


■W'lMimnnnniiiiiiimi 


MiiMMiiHiliiii 


"#Sf'" 


mm 


888 


OUB  8TBEET. 


could  have  seen  me  in  Dr.  Fouby's  office  yesteiv 
day.  The  dear  old  gentleman  was  so  amazed  I 
It  seemed  inipostiihl')  to  make  him  understand. 
I  introduced  myHclf  first  as  a  friend  of  Dr.  David 
Howard,  and  related  to  him  several  incidents 
connected  with  his  decease.  Then  he  inquired 
about  the  doctor's  adopted  son ;  and  when  I 
assured  him  that  I  was  that  person  he  would  not 
believe  me.  When  really  convinced  he  shed 
tears.  *  Bryony  expected  you  back,'  he  *^aid  ; 
'but  after  Howard  adopted  you  I  gave  you  up. 
I'm  growing  very  old.  Be  my  boy  now,  and  take 
my  practice.'  " 

"And  what  did  you  say?''  cried  June,  a  little 
eagerly  for  a  young  lady  who  had  just  decided  to 
sever  the  relations  between  tnem. 

"  Why,  I  said  '  yes,' "  smiling.  "  Are  you  veiy 
glad,  little  girl  ?    I  expected  this  when  I  came." 

"And  yet  did  not  tell  me?" 

"No.  I  wanted  to  prove  you,  June.  The 
woman  who  would  part  with  father  and  home 
willingly,  and  return  to  France  with  me,  must 


W!!^^^^Blwi^sm«<mftimi0m^Skihiiimiisi  ■ 


office  yeflter- 
\  80  amnzed  I 
1  understand, 
of  Dr.  David 
tral  incidents 
1  he  inquired 
and  when  I 
he  would  not 
ced  he  shed 
ck,'  he  *Miid  ; 
gave  you  up. 
aow,  and  take 

June,  a  little 
1st  decided  to 

Are  you  vety 
len  I  came." 

t,  June.  The 
ler  and  home 
'ith  me,  must 


4te 


ENDINOS. 


880 


love  me  truly.  Don't  blame  me.  Remember,  I 
was  jilted  twice." 
"  Now,  Paul,  that's  mean  to  twit  me  with  it." 
"Is  it?  Well,  I  did  not  realize  that.  I  prom- 
ise not  to  do  it  ttguin.  I  assure  you  it  does  not 
trouble  me  in  the  least.  But,  June,  old  Dr.  Fosby 
is  anxious  to  see  yoii.  We  must  go  there  to- 
morrow." . 

"  I  knew  his  face  was  familiar,"  said  Jetty,  that 
eveii.ng,  on  hearing  the  news  from  Rose.    And 
when  alone  she  ad«led,   her    face  crimson  with 
blushes,  "  How  could  I  ever  think  of  him  ?    I'd 
be  scared  of  him!    'Miss  June,  now,  just  suits 
him,  with  her  pretty,  sprightly  ways.    Well,  he 
knew  best,  so  did  God.     He  wasn't  my  'own,' 
after  all  my  thinkin' ;  but  it  led  me  to  Him  as  calls 
Buch  trash  as  me  his  own,  and  I  received  him. 
But  I  can't  help  wishin'  I  had  never  talked  so  to 
that  doctor."     '■  ',"'r<    '•^;>  •;',;;  :.-,    ■,,^^-,^\'' 

She  need  not  have  been  troubled.  Dr.  Hobson 
never  acted  as  if  he  remembered  that  passage  in 
his  life,  and  she  soon  forgot  her  discomfiture  in 
his  presence.        . 


'wiswmw^ 


840 


OUR  STREET. 


Dr.  Hobson  resides  in  the  great  stone  front 
formerly  Dr.  Fosby's  residence,  wonderful  to  his 
boyhood.  His  wife  has  become  (imte  reconciled 
to  tt  "  pill  and  nostrum  man,"  and  even  vi»it»*  his 
patients  occasionally,  giving  hira  fresh  proofs 
constantly  of  her  ability  to  rouse  the  despondent. 
He  snyK  "  she  is  a  wonderful  woman  ; ''  she  says 
that  is  one  of  the  weak  points  of  her  strong, 
bravo  husband,  his  admiration  of  her.  Another, 
which  develops  fast,  is  an  admiration  of  the  little 
flock  gathering  at  her  side.  ^      '  • 

Bry  is  glad  they  live  so  near  her,  though  dis- 
tance would  not  n;"ke  the  difference  with  her 
MOW  that  it  did  in  other  days.  The  young  doctor 
has  been  very  successful  in  his  treatment  of  her ; 
and,  though  she  must  always  be  lame,  she  moves 
with  a  degree  of  quickness,  and  painlessless,  very 
wonderful  to  her,  on  the  patent  crutches  he  mod- 
elled for  her  himsolf. 

She  is  very  much  like  herself,  still  using  occar 
sionally,  in  her  quaint  st  \e,  her  old  word  "  oom- 


ati*;**-'.;' 


/'i^mmm 


tajfc3»«*»" 


ENDINGS. 


841 


stone  front 
[erful  to  his 
e  reconciled 
en  vittittf  his 
tresli    proofs 

despondent. 

; ''  she  says 

her  strong, 
r.    Another, 

I  of  the  little 

,  though  dis- 
ice  with  her 
yroung  doctor 
ment  of  her; 
le,  she  moves 
dessless,  very 
ches  he  raod- 

II  using  occ^ 
I  word  *'  oom- 


fortiible,"  tliough  it  does  not  appear  an  often  as 
ft)rnierly.  There  is  a  little  more  roundness  to  her 
limbs,  perhaps,  a  little  more  pink  on  her  cheek, 
a  fresher  spring  to  her  laugh.  But  this  is  perfectly 
natural,  as  she  goes  out  into  the  fresh  air  every 
day  now.  She  has  days  of  pain,  to  be  sure,  but 
they  are  only  occasional,    -i  •     •  - 

Dr.  Hobson's  family  and  Dick  Perkins'  quarrel 
about  her  incessantly.  Rose  borrows  her  occa- 
sionally, and  Mr.  Gardenell  looks  for  a  visit  from 
her  every  summer.  There  is  a  great  clamor  for 
her,  among  the  children,  especially  at  Christmas 
time ;  her  stories  are  such  merry,  babbling,  health- 
ful ones  we  do  not  wonder.  \    ■        .,  : 

It  would  be  a  good  thing  could  she  divide  her- 
self indefinitely  at  such  times.  As  it  is,  she  does 
the  next  befet  thing —  I  hope  you  will  not  like  her 
less  for  knowing  it — she  writes  stories  for  the 
children.  Not  big,  novelish  things,  you  know, 
but  primrosy,  hawthorny  ones,  that  make  your 
very  senses  ache  with  pleasure  and  with  longing 
to  be  a  child  again,  providing  you  are  not  one 


10* 


I  nftliiiiii' •    tt'niii|-Tfr^iliii.'ri'i(rriiiiiriii't'iVi'iriV['v  I'-ilnrr'-JTYff 


842 


OJJK  STRiiiST. 


already.  We  know  lots  of  fifty-year  oldere  who 
are  not  a  day  over  five  years  old  until  the  story 
is  ended,  and  for  at  least  thirty-six  hours  after. 

All  this  came  about  through  Becky  Cartwright. 
So,  if  anyone  is  to  blame,  it  is  she.  She  realized 
Bry's  faculty  for  the  work  and  pressed  her  to  it. 
That  is  how  it  happens  that  Bry  owns  a  horse  and 
basket-wagon,  a  wonderful  affair  Christmas  times, 
when  it  is  stuffed  to  overflowing  by  numerous 
Great-hearts,  who  know  she  is  just  the  fairy  to 
scatter  their  bou:i+y-  -      ■     • 

The  rest  of  Our  Street  acquaintances  are 
changed  also,  as  who  changes  not  in  this  changeful 
world?  Hephzibah  and  Beulah  pay  occasional 
visits  to  tneir  prcsjjerous  brother ;  Hudworth  still 
sella  periodicals;  Kiddy  Langdon  has  given  up 
her  shop,  no  longer  needing  its  support.  As  to 
Widow  Graf  ham,  perhaps  Becky's  words,  in  a  late 


poem, 


best  describe  her:    . 
"  And  mother,  with  her  tireless  hands — 
Those  wrinkled,  withered,  tireless  hands  — 
With  silvery  threads  amid  her  bands  — 
Waits  longing  for  her  rest." 


'^JsC^*' 


fe^ilUi|l.ttl.-^l"llll.  .-WlllW 


oldere  who 
;il  the  story- 
hours  after. 

Cartwright. 

She  realized 
ed  her  to  it. 
\  a  horse  and 
Lstmas  times, 
)y  numerous 

the  fairy  to 

intances  are 
bis  changeful 
,y  occasional 
tidworth  still 
(as  given  up 
iport.  As  to 
Drds,  in  a  late 

ds— 
ands  — 

s —  " 


?^^»sr- 


ENDING8. 


843 


I  hope,  when  you  visit  Our  City,  reader,  you 
will  make  it  a  point  to  see  Bryony  Perkins.  She 
will  make  you  very  '•'•  comfortable,''  especially  if 
you  come  as  the  friend  of  Rev.  Herbert  Gardenell 
or  Becky  Cartwright. 

She  stUl  resides  in  the  pretty  cottage,  with  the 
south  bay  wmdow,  on  the  left  side  of  Our  Street, 
as  you  go  towards  the  Oaks. 

Don't  forget  the  name,  Bryony  Perkins  ;  or  the 
house  and  street,  number  ought-0-naught  (000) 
Our  Street.    Give  my  love  to  her  when  you  call. 


tAh-iiM^i^js^X* 


»y^tAtMiin*^»mt  t\ii<m,vnM»ulUk 


1/  TX:  :.:{  WJf.     *'^    !-i  <'>'l> 


■  If  ■ , 


v» 


^      *.  4  J  i^ 


i 


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•     i 


t  ^jfc_^^&     T  r        -t 


^»    .     „l3.'B«*'''^| 


.s8^^mii'"  "■'   lii#ft»»"'^'"' 


f-fOT, 


i, 
■1     >       I 


(     •    ,        •>' 


i       '   7 


,'■>         < 


«;  >..  '3 


JOIi:Nf    BUEMM 


HIS    PRISON    BARS. 


BY 


ALPHONSO  A.  HOPKINS. 

Square  z6mo  ;  360  pp.    Price,  (1.25. 

Thb  1x>ok  (howt  the  marlct  of  a  geiiiui  !n  the  field  of  romance,  and  the  au- 
thor can  well  congratulate  hinuelf  on  hit  abundant  %ucc»u.—Sjrratut*  Daily 
Standard. 


,    ,    We  can  pve  nothing 
It  must  be  r«ui  to  be  ap- 


Wshave  read  the  book  with  abtorbing  interest, 
of  the  Kolemn  pathc .  that  runs  through  the  story, 
preciated.— /TaiwiV/OM  Ktfuilican. 

Thb  story  is  admirably  wrought ;  written  in  Ma.  Hopkins'  unusually  clear 
and  graphic  style,  is  true  to  nature,  and  holds  the  reader's  attention  and  in- 
terest to  the  end.— Tit  Sa/tUt  l/mem. 

In  developing  his  story,  Mr.  HorKiNS  displays  the  skill  of  a  true  artist- 
The  minor  characters  are  well  drawn,  and  the  dramatic  incidents,  in  which  the 
story  abounds,  are  graphically  represented. — Albany  Evming  Journal. 

Thb  story  is  as  helpful  and  sweet  as  that  of  David  Copperfield's  "pure,  un- 
sullied page."  The  story  is  a  thoroughly  American  one ;  its  descriptions  of 
life  in  the  political  circles  of  State  and  National  Capitals  are  vivid,  sometime* 
brilliant,  and  always  truthful.  The  temptations  which  beset  the  aspirant  for 
political  honors  in  this  country  are  delineated  with  masterly  %V:i\.—Buffala 
Conritr, 

Ma.  Hopkins  has  had  considerable  experience  in  political  life  in  this  city, 
which  we  recognize  as  the  original  of  "  Baylan,"  the  Capital  City  which  forms 
the  center  for  very  much  of  the  grouping  in  the  work.  And  he  knows  what 
life  in  the  army  is.  He  is  also  a  fine  poet,  a  pleasant  lecturer,  a  clear  thinker, 
and  thoroughly  conscientious.  In  his  Dovel,  founded  on  (set,  he  has  weaved 
th«  lessons  of  all  this  varied  experience.— il/Mn^  Argut. 

It  is  fresh,  vigorous,  natural,  ''with  no  nonsense  about  it,"  and  from  a  new, 
and  we  believe  comparatively  young  pen.  I.  is  a  book  tiiat  gives  promise  of  a 
future,  and  is  especially  noticeable  Tor  being  a  temperance  book  without  being 
at  all  intemperate  or  silly.  •  •  •  •  It  is  a  pathetic  story,  and  its  moral 
is  admirably  voiced  in  the  beautiful  and  touching  sermon  which  concludes  it, 
and  it  is  one  of  the  most  effectively  written— in  straightforward  Saxon  fashion 
—and  readable  books,  in  its  flow  and  incident,  that  we  have  had  for  a  long 
time.— A^«ti»  York  Evtning  Mail. 


I 

I 
'i 


««if>l»'lililiilMM»(«-y'-^^    ^■'J-Jfii-'~-^~^-fi^'.*''^l^  ^■■T'i^iiiil^-tiSJ'^i-'-^^-l-.^t-^^  {-dlit  .Mii-..    i.t„lV,r.t,.^1|ff»J* 


Btjth  EBSKnni's  Cbo»<>K8.    By  Pwisy.  Boston:    D.  Loth- 

rop  &.  Co.  $1.50. 

"Among  the  few  prominent  publishing  houses  which  make 
a  specially  of  Sunday-school  literature,  none  deserves  more 
highly  at  the  hands  of  the  Christian  public  than  D.  Lothrop 
&  Co.  Thel'  nresfca  seem  consecrated  to  the  making  ol 
books  and  papers  — pure,  wholesome,  and  safe  —  for  the 
young.  In  this  day,  when  money-making  seems  to  be  along 
the  line  of  the  Issuance  of  vicious  and  trashy  stuff,  it  Is  a 
matter  for  congratulation  that  purely  secular  houses  can 
sternly  resist  the  tide  and  devote  themselves  to  the  publicar 
tion  of  only  what  Is  elevating  and  good. 

These  remarks  are  called  forth  by  reading  the  above  book, 
and  after  a  long  acqulntance  with  the  publications  of  thii 
house. 

Two  years  ago  the  writer  suggested  in  these  columns  to 
Mrs.  Alden,  who  writes  under  the  pseudonym  of  "Pansy," 
that  she  follow  up  the  "Four  Girls  at  Chautauqua"  and  the 
"  ChauUuqua  Girls  at  Home"  with  an  account  of  their  life 
after  marriage,  their  real  life,  as  marriage  is  often  made  an 
excuse  for  the  withdrawal  of  young  people  from  active  service 
'  in  the  Church.  In  "Euth  Ej-skine's  Crosses"  we  find  an 
answer,  in  part,  to  our  suggestion.  We  say  in  part,  for  the 
book  does  not  wholly  meet  our  thought,  and  yet  we  are  not 
quite  sure  but  that  our  disappolnlment  is  to  be  found  in  the 
fact  that  Pansy  has  given  us  real  and  not  ideal  life. 

The  book  is  a  worthy  contribution  to  the  series,  and  the 
series  ought  to  be  in  every  Sunday-school  and  young  people'a 
library  in  the  land." —  JSTeio  Fwifc  CAristtan -4 doocaee. 


.  A,  -i  .a»S«a 


■s^saxf 


^g^jje^^tMfUfUvtSii 


iton:    D.  Loth- 

les  which  make 
deserves  more 
lan  D.  Lothrop 
the  making  ot 
safe  —  for  the 
ems  to  be  along 
hy  stuff,  it  is  a 
lar  houses  can 
to  the  publica- 

the  above  l>ook, 
lioations  of  this 

«se  columns  to 
n»  of  "Pansy," 
mqua"  and  the 
int  of  their  life 
9  often  made  an 
>m  active  service 
ses  "  we  find  an 

in  part,  for  l;he 
I  yet  we  are  not 
I  be  found  in  the 
sal  life. 

series,  and  the 
d  young  people's 
Advocate.        ; 


mmm 


WOItD  PIOTUBES.  Thong:htt  and  Dcsorlptlons  from  Fopn- 
lar  Author*.  Boston :  D.  I.otbrop  Se  Co.  Illoatrated,  Frio* 
•1.75.~01U  edgea,  SS.OO. 

Thi»  Vvjlumo  is  Irwribed  by  the  author  to  "  the  Memory  of  My  Beloved 
Mather,  Miusaret  Govnrie  Strohm,  and  of  the  happy  days  when  we  read  to- 
gether."   A  note  of  acknowledgment  to  the  authors  and  the  publishers  rep. 
resented,  answers  as  a  preface  to  this  compilation.    One  hundred  authors  are 
%uoted,  among  whom  many  are  well-known  to  all,  as  Grace  Aguilar,  Louisa 
M.  Alcott,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Bulwer,  Dickens,  Disraeli,  Amanda  M.  Doug- 
lass, Edward  Evei«tt  Hale,  Hawthorne,  Victor  Hugo,  Jean  Ingelow,  Eliia- 
.  beth  Stuart  Phelps,  Charles  Reade,  Mrs.  Stowe,  and  Bayard  Taylor.    There 
Una  lack  of  deep  meanings  in  this  collection,  and  of  course  all  the  ^pular 
authors  could  not  1>e  represented  in  a  small  volume.     Forty    v-opagesof  the 
three  hundred  and  fifteen  are  devoted  to  various  subjects  under  the  title 
"  ThoughU."    The  remaining  pages  are  classed  "  Descriptions  and  Scenes." 
Some  selections  seem  to  be  chosen  to  illustrate  certain  styles  of  picturesque 
narrative  and  are  allotted  several  pages,  while  others  are  terse  enough  to  be 
contained  in  a  few  lines.    Dickens  is  awarded  the  first  place,  and  the  open, 
ing  thoughu  are  concerning  "  children."    "  I  love  these  little  people ;  and  it 
is  not  a  slight  thing  when  they  who  are  so  fresh  from  God  love  us." 

Here  is  something  for  the  educators  of  women,  by  George  MacDonald  ; 
"  Men  like  women  to  reflect  them ;  but  the  wonuui  who  can  only  reflect  a 
man  and  is  nothing  in  herself  will  never  be  of  ranch  service  to  him." 

This  is  a  picture,  sure  enough,  from  Mrs.  W-'tney:  "She  was  like  a 
breeze  that  set  everything  fluttering,  and  left  the  whole  hwse  freshened  after 
(he  had  passed  on."  ,     '■■u 

Here  some  "  Words  of  Truth,"  by  Miss  Alcott.  bear  profound  philosophy. 
"It  i«  an  excellent  plan  to  have  some  place  where  we  can  go  to  be  quiet 
when  things  vex  or  grieve  us.  There  are  a  good  many  hard  times  in  this  life 
of  ours,  but  we  can  always  bear  them  if  we  ask  help  in  the  right  way." 

One  more  selection  from  the  short  speeches  must  sufiice :  "  No  life  is  all 
sunshine,  nor  wrs  it  so  intended.  And  yet  I  thibk  God  doesu't  mean  us  t« 
fear  the  future.  We  are  totakeup  daily  evenUwithhopeAilhrarttandshap* 
them  into  a  higher  form  than  crude  fragments." 

Such  a  book  Is  invaluable  in  iu  influence  on  young  people  who  are  j-jst 
forming  their  ideas  of  life.  Many  of  the  longer  sketches  are  convenient  to 
take  up  when  one  feels  like  reading,  but  cannot  endure  a  continuous  effort 
of  the  mind.  A  sick  person,  on  recovering  enough  to  be  entertained  with 
short  readinyi,  would  be  greatly  delighted  by  judicious  use  of  this  attractlva 
klndafmedicineforthemind.— 7;t«Xi:j,;'a/ Cirw/MM.  .        - 


iftW^»iw<«ii^ib»t*rt)»tilii|Miiiurt 


.iiimiitSSt 


Out  OF  Darkwebs  IwTO  Liobt.    By  Mary  A.  Latlibnry. 

Witli  eiglit  masterly  cliaructer  drawings,  full  page,  with 

poems  ami  exqiiixUe  vigiieltes.    Fine  binding.    Quarto. 

Boston:  D.  Lollirop  &  Co.    Price,  $3.00. 

We  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  this  one  of  the 
most  attractive  presentation  bookii  wliieii  hw  been  brought 
out  iu  this  city  for  many  seasons.  Elegantly  bound  and  su- 
perbly iliuNtrated,  displaying  ine  utmost  art  of  artist  and 
printer,  its  iitirary  merit  is  of  the  highest  order.  The  au- 
thor. Miss  Mary  A.  Lathbury,  is  both  artist  and  poet.  In 
the  several  poems  which  n>ake  up  the  book  she  traces  the 
gradual  coming  out  from  the  thick  darkness  of  doubt  and 
unlieliet  into  the  full  broad  diiy  of  faith  and  religious  trust. 
They  are  sweetly  and  delicately  written,  and  will  appeal  to 
many  liearts  whose  exiHiriences  have  been  similar.  The 
drawings  with  which  Miss  Lathbury  accompanies  her  poems 
express  in  form  what  her  pen  has  done  iTi  words.  So  full  of 
meaning  has  she  made  them  that  they  almost  alone  tell  the 
story  of  the  doubt,  the  struggle,  the  anguish  and  the  convic- 
tion wliicli  so  many  have  experienced  in  their  attempts  to 
attain  to  a  higher  spiritual  life.  The  vignettes  are  no  less 
artistic  and  expressive,  each  one  being  emblematic  of  some 
sentiment  contained  in  the  poem  to  which  It  belongs.  To 
those  wbo  celebrate  Christmas  as  a  religious  festival  as  well 
as  to  those  who  are  of  a  thoughtful  turn  of  mind,  the  vol- 
ume will  have  a  peculiar  value.  Most  holiday  volumes  serve 
only  for  the 'reason  in  whicli  they  appear,  but  the  oi>o  before 
us  possesses  those  peculiar  elements  which  make  't  a  staled- 
ard  work,  unaffect<>d  by  the  lapse  of  time  or  seasoiic. 

Tub  Childben's  Almanac.  For  1870-80-81-82-8.9.  Edited 
By  Ella  Farmtin.  Boston :  D.  Lothrop  A  Co. 
This  unique  little  volume,  which  for  beauty  and  Intrinsic 
value,  will  compare  with  many  of  the  high-priced  annuals, 
contains  peculiar  attractions  which  will  render  it  one  of  the 
best  selling  books  of  the  season.  The  calendar — which 
reaches  over  five  years  —  gives  it  a  value  which  the  ordinary 
almanac  does  not  possess.  Each  nu)nth  Is  represented  by  an 
original  poem  from  the  pen  of  a  distinguished  American 
author,  the  list  of  contributors  numbering  such  names  as 
Longfellow,  Whiitier,  Aldrich,  Celia  Thaxter,  Mrs.  A.  D.  T. 
Whitney,  Edgar  Fawcett,  and  others. "  Accompanying  these 
poems  are  twelve  exquisite  drawings  on  wood  by  Miss  Hum- 
phrey, and  four  beautiful  chromo-llthographs  by  Miss  Lath- 
bury. As  If  these  attractions  were  not  enough,  the  editor 
has  prepared  twelve  pages  of  birthday  mottoes  from  the 
poets,  making  a  single  line  motto  for  every  day  In  the  year. 
Blank  memoranda  leaves  are  inserted  for  the  benefit  of  those 
who  wish  to  put  down  notes  or  make  rword  of  daily  occur- 
rences. Two  editions  are  issued, — one  In  plain  cloth,  at 
50  cenU,  aud  the  other  with  silver-and-gold  cover  gilt  edges, 
at  $1.09. 


;^s^^fes*iap^j..jj      iiwi 


\.  Lathbnry. 
ill  page,  wlib 
iiig.    Quarto. 

Is  one  of  tlio 
been  brought 
Mimd  and  8U< 

of  artist  and 
iler.  The  au- 
and  poet.  In 
liie  traces  the 
of  doubt  and 
ellgious  trust, 
will  appeal  to 
shnilar.  The 
iiles  her  poems 
ds.  So  full  of 
t  alone  tell  th« 
md  the  convlc- 
lir  attempts  to 
es  are  no  less 
rnatic  of  some 

belongs.  To 
festival  as  well 
mind,  the  vol- 
Toluraes  serve 
the  opo  before 
ike  't  a  staud- 
sasuiic. 

-82-83.  Edited 
>. 

f  and  intrinsic 
riced  annuals, 
!r  it  one  of  the 
endar — which 
h  the  ordinary 
•resented  by  an 
lied  American 
uch  names  as 
Mrs.  A.  D.  T. 
ipanying  these 
by  Miss  Hum- 
by  Miss  Lath- 
igli,  the  editor 
toes  from  the 
ay  in  the  year, 
leneflt  of  those 
at  daily  occur- 
plain  cloth,  at 
Dver  gilt  edges, 


_ji|gBSPj®*iSg»SR- 


Totrno  Folks'  Hibtort  of  OB»"»"»i  ,?/  ^J^V^''"**®  ^• 
YoiiBe  Boston:  D.  Lothrop  4  Ca  Price,  $1.60. 
Thelecond  vZme  of  Miss  tonge's  s«ries  o.  Histories  for 
TounK  People  Ukes  up  Greece,  and  deals  with  it  In  an  ex- 
SifffW^iiteresUng  manner.  The  author  makes  the  at- 
?Sd1  to  triwttie  story  of  that  country  of  poetry  and  fable 
S^Tto  be  intollNlble  tJ  children.  She  begins  y  ^th  son.e  of 
thebert  known  of  the  Greek  myths,  which  she  considers 
IhLlTtalviiecesMry  to  the  undersUnding  of  both  the  his- 
S?an1lf  iSv^then,  taking  np  tl.e  ^.read  of  -cknowl- 
edied  history,  loUows  It  down  to  our  day.  ^^^^l}^^,B\t*^^ 
5?  Oernwmylt  la  very  fuUy  illustrated,  and  is  bound  In  the 
same  style. 

Tbok  Blub.    By  Mrs.  Lucta  Chase  Bell    Laije  16rao.  10 
inustriiio!;.   by  Merrill.       Boston:   D.   Lothrop  &  Co. 

Thiols  a  delightful  story  for  girls,  and  promises  to  be  as 
popular  as  any  of  Miss  Alcoifs  productions.  The  scene  Is 
Kd  In  the  far  west,  and  the  incidents  are  such  as  could  only 
Il^cur  In  a  newly-developed  country,  where  even  cWldm^a.e 
Uu-'ht  to  depend  upon  themselves.  "Doc,  the  warm- 
heaTied,  Impulsive  heroine  of  the  story.  Is  an  original  chw^ 
acter  and  one  whose  ways  are  well  worth  copying  by  those 
who  reJd  her  adventures  and  experiences.  T he  VM,ok  shows 
howmu^hcanbe  accomplished  In  a  community  by  earnest, 
determined  endeavor  on  the  part  of  a  single  one  of  iU  mem- 
bers,  even  If  that  member  Is  a  y">ing  g'^- _.  .    ^„„„  „,_,,, 

IVtte  Blue  ought  to  become  a  standard  book  In  every  girl  s 

library. 

Child  Toilebb  of  Boston  Stbeets.   By  Emma  E.  Brown. 

Wlfh  12  pictures  drawn  from  life  by  fotherine  Peirson. 

Quarto,  with  illuminated  board  covers.    Boston:  D.  Lotli- 

Her?i?ik^book  wli'lch  should  be  read  by  every  Boston  boy 
and  Kirl.  to  say  nothing  of  the  boys  and  girls  who  have  never 
Ken  In  Boston,  and  who  would  like  to  know  "oniethnig 
about  the  variois  ways  in  whlcli  poor  children  manage  to 
make  a  llvh.gfor  themselves  and  those  depending  upon 
Sem.  Miss  Brown,  the  author,  personally  made  the  ac- 
S'tance  of  the  children  here  described,  saw  them  at  heir 
work  V  sited  them  at  their  homes,  and  saw  how  they  ved, 
Wha  sheTeaJned  during  these  vi.its  »»  v.ry  Interestingly 
told  and  win  give  young  readers  who  are  bett«r  off  a  fair 
idea  oT  the  daily  life  of  the  working  poor,  aijd  the  trials  and 
troubles  hrough  which  they  have  to  pass.  .Humble  as^oue 
S  the  occupations  are  which  are  here  described,  the  example 
n#  Industrv  and  economy  set  by  certain  of  those  who  follow 
them  might  ^  profitably  imitated.  The  illustrations  b, 
SfsTpelrlon  add  to  the  biauty  and  Interest  of  the  book.    ^  . 


...«'Si«Li9Xi~*v'~>' 


«u«>--M-~-~w»^'«»i'>-««»M>MJ»*&M^ 


The  Stobt  of  Bxomsh  LmmAVVVK  Fob  Yorifo  Pko- 

PLE.     ByLucy  Cecil  White   Mrs.  Lillie).     Fiillv  illii»i,.-ii" 

ted  with  portralu  and  views  of  colebr.  ted  tpow.     I'^nivy. 

Bo»ion:  D.  Lothrop  A  Co.     Price,  11.26. 

riiis  is  a  bool<  wliicli  should  fliid  a  place  in  the  library  ot 
every  household.  It  is  from  the  pen  of  a  distinguished  iadv 
now  in  Eiifflnnd,  who  has  peculiar  adventages  for  m»klu4 
It  nc"  only  interesting,  but  reliable.    It  In  not  a  "  piclced  '  p 

v.K,  "iwitliy  put  together,  and  mivdv"  onl-,  to  s<'l,  !  u..  k  cartn 
;,Utl;  rough  coir  pilation  r>f  facts,  AriUen  In  a  fascinating 
'^  -oiJ  ,t  aeable  m  .nier,  and  lU  a  style  especially  adapted  to 
the  ,Mt"!  of  young  readers.  Although  comprehensive  in  its 
'  -IS  it  s  not  wearisome  in  detail.  It  contains  interesting 
'■.  ■:<:>hes  of  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Bacon,  Shakespeare,  Ben  Jon- 
!>M\  ri'  "  many  other  distinguished  writers,  with  a  great  deal 
of  i>u»  Mns'information  about  men  and  manners  of  vari- 
ous ;uae^  The  illustrations  are  particularly  fine,  and  in- 
clude portraits  of  the  principal  characters,  with  views  of 
historical  buildings  and  places. 
Overhead:  What  Harrt  awd  Nellt  Discovered  ik 

THE  HBAVENd.     Illustrated,  Quarto     Illuminated  cover. 

Boston:  D.  Lothrop  &  Co.    Price,  11.00, 

In  this  cliarmlug  little  volume  the  author  undertakes  to 
t«!iacli  the  rudiments  of  astronomy  to  children,  without  mak- 
ing it  seem  like  study.  It  io  written  in  conversational  style, 
the  characters  consisting  of  Professor  Wilioughby  and  sev- 
ural  of  his  young  friends.  In  the  course  of  these  conversa- 
tions a  descriptian  of  the  starry  heavens  is  given,  the  pecu- 
liarities of  the  heavenly  bodies  are  descrll)ed,  and  the 
planentary  sysbsm  explained,  together  with  its  vafious 
phenomena.  All  this  is  done  so  easily  and  naturally  that  at 
the  close  of  the  'oook  the  children  And  tliat  they  have  learned 
a  great  deal  of  astronomy  witliout  knowing  it.  The  text  of 
the  book  is  greatly  aided  by  the  illustrations,  of  which  there 
Rre  many.  A  thorough  perusal  of  its  pages  will  give  young 
readers  a  better  idea  of  the  distant  worlds  above  and  around 
them  than  the  study  of  4  dry  text  book  for  an  entire  term. 
Prof.  Waldo,  of  t>"»  Cambridge  Observatory,  furnishes  a 
pleisant  intrcd-.ctiou,  iu  which  he  indorses  the  l)ook  from  a 
Bcientlflc  standpoiitt. 

SiDNBT  Mar-in's  Christmas.  By  Pansy.  Large  Wmo., 
600  pages.  Fully  illustrated.  Boston :  D.  Lothrop  <&  Co. 
Price,  $1.50, 

Of  the  multitudes  of  story  books  bronjiht  out  for  the 
holiday  season  none  will  be  more  sought"  after  by  young 
readers  than  this,  one  of  Mrs.  Aiden's  latent  works.  It  con- 
sists of  a  series  of  stories  written  with  n  special  adaptation 
to  the  reason,  and  all  of  them  are  specially  suited  to  cosy  fire- 
side reading.  It  is  safe  to  say  tltat  "Pansy"  has  never 
written  a  dull  nor  uninteresting  story, 'and  the  present  col- 
lection is  made  up  of  her  sprightliest  and  best  efforts.  It  is 
printed  on  clear  white  paper,  and  is  beautifully  bound. 


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BOUUDALOUE  A  <D  Louis  XIV,  or  the  Preacher 
AND  THE  K/N-G.  UauMtafwf  from  the  Vrcnch  of  L.  L.  F. 
Bung-.ier,   GCTC^•a.   (?2th  edition)       .ih  a  Biographical 
SiHrtch  of  the  Author.    We  think  Messrs.  Lothrop  &  Co. 
deserve  the  thanks  of  the  r^-.dii.g  community  for  iht  hand-  • 
somely  got  un  -dilion  oi"  the  '  BuiTgener  Historical  Series' 
the;  aic  now  publishing;  it  will  prove  a  most  valuable  ad- 
dition to  the  Literature  of  the  season.     Mons.  Bungener's 
writings,  while  possessing  all  the  fascination  of  romance 
are  pre-eminent  for  truthfulness.    "Truthfulness  in  the 
design,  truthfulness  in  the  details,  truthfulness  frorn  first 
to  last  reigns  supreme  in  M.  Bungener's  productions."     No 
author  imparts  a  more  vivid  reality  to  his  impersonations. 
Whether  he  conducts  us  to  the  splendors  of  Versailles, 
ushering  us  into  the  presence  of  him  who  pervaded  all 
with  his  majesty,  whether  we  pace  up  a-d  down  with  him 
the  Philosopher's  Walk,  listening  to  the  eloquently  pious  dis- 
courses  there ;  or,  whether  we  draw  our  breath  trembling 
at  the  dread  conflict  engaged  betvv-'in  the  Preacher  and 
the  King,  we  yield  ourselves  to  the  magic  illusion  with  the 
unreasoning,  intuitive  confidence  which  the  truthfulness 
of  genius  never  fails  to  inspire.' ~  JBos/on  Cultivator. 

D.  Lothrop  &  Co.,  have  commenced  the  public?  lion  of 
a  series  of  historical  romances  from  the  pen  of  L.  L.  F. 
Bungener,  a  Protestant  minister  at  Geneva.    The  first  vol- 
ume of  the  series,  entitled  Bourdaloue  and  Louis  XIV., 
or  The  Preacher  and  the  King,  has  been  already  issued, 
accompanied  by  a  biographical  sketch  of  the  author.    This 
book  has  reached  its  twelfth  or  thirteenth  edition  in  the 
original ;  and  its  popularity  is  chiefly  to  be  attributed  to  the 
fact  that  it  presents  the  events  of  history  accurately  and 
faithfully,  at  the  same  time  that  it  weaves  in  with  them  a 
thread  of  romance  which  makes  the  narrative  as  entenain 
ng  as  it  is  instructive.    The  other  volumes  in  the  series  are 
Louis  XV.,  and  His  Times,  or  The  Priest  and  the  Hugue- 
,,ot,"  "Rabaut  and  Bridaine"  and  "The  Tower  of  Con- 
itancy."    Price.  $1.50.  tz.c\i.  — Boston  Daily  Journal. 


«A 


fc.  j*-«l"*.*>V.i.»VA«»nl'"t-'-k>.  * 


te  «n>..'.v  u '^■''VM  iMw-aA***  ( ^° 


wmmmmm 


rHB  NAME  ABOVI   BVERV  NAME.     In  •«"«"■  «»^^i>  • 

new  and  revitcd  ediiion  of  ihit  work  tha  Piibllih«r»  append  »  few  of  tt» 
many  favorabla  nolicei  which,  from  varloua  aourcct,  teatlfy  to  lu 
cathollcliy,  and  Iti  atdptation  to  lh«  wanU  of  the  dlwlpUa  of  our  Ur4 
by  whatever  denominational  name  ihey  may  be  called. 

The  Nam*  »bov«  Every  Name.  »r,  Dtvoiinat  Ktdnaiitm, 

With  AT«XT  FOK  Kvanv  DAYiM  TH«  Y«AR.  By  \\\r  Rn.  SamtuI  CmlUr. 
ThU  Illile  volume,  which  1>  a  gem  of  tyimgraphy,  is  juit  what  ii  claima 
to  be— "devotional  and  practical.*  The  pure  gold  of  tha  goapcl  U  her* 
without  the  btt»e  alloy  of  man'«  wiedom.  It  accorcU  with  tha  teaching! 
of  the  divine  Spirit,  and  tends  to  exalt  In  the  aouU  of  men  the  Chrlat  ol 

God. 

The  text*  are  fitly  choaen,  and  the  oxquUlte  fragmeatt  of  aacred  poetry 

aeem  like  Jewel*  from  a -mine  of  Inaplralion.  None  can  read  thia  book 
devoutly  without  being  benefited  j  and  all  who  read  It  In  the  apirit  In  which 
It  appeara  to  have  been  written,  will  lay  down  the  volume  with  hlchet 
view*  of  Chri«t'«  nature,  and  of  Hla  work,  and  reverently  acknowledge  that 
If  Hii  rame  bo  above  every  name  In  dignity  and  glory.  It  U  alto,  a>  de- 
clared in  the  Inipired  canticle,  "  a«  ointment  poured  forth"  In  Itt  heavenly 
fragrance.— />i»-wA    fui/cr. 

rhe  Name  above  Every  Name,    it  >>=<»  » «:W««r  for  every 

week  in  the  year,  each  chapter  preceded  with  appropriate  pattagei  from 
Scripture  and  cloning  with  a  choice  selection  from  devotional  poetry.  The 
whole  book  it  eminently  evangelical,  atid  fitted  to  foiter  the  growth  of 
true  and  genuine  piety  in  the  soul. 

rh«   Name  above  Every  Name.      By  the  Rn.  s<,mmi 

Cntltr.  Thia  baa  been  careltilly  pivpared  by  lu  author.  Ih.-  texts  are 
for  every  day  to  the  year,  and  have  reference  to  the  Scriptural  title*  of 
our  lard.  The  devotional  and  practical  mediuiions  are  for  every  week  In 
tha  year.  The  appendix  conuins  five  hundreel  and  twenty  five  titles  of 
our  Lord,  with  tlie  Scriptual  reference;  also  a  tnpical  and  alphabetical  Uit 
of  the  titles,  and  of  first  line*  of  poetry  with  the  author's  name. 

The  work  is  exceedingly  valuable,  not  only  fur  iu  medltsitlons,  but  fat 
the  great  amount  of  information  which  it  containn.  It  is  a  book  which 
the  Christian  would  do  well  always  to  have  at  hand.  Bvagtikmt  Kntm^ 
tJgt  Sfcitff. 
rhe  volume  Is  ■  preciousi  p„df  pieeurn,  for  all  who  love  the  "Name  thai 
it  abC've  every  ntrnt^'—Pretittant  Ctmnhmam. 
riaia  Edition  ^i.m  Full  Gilt  $i  jo  Red  line  Edition  ft.oo 

D.  Lothrop  &  Co.,  Publishers,  Boston. 


3IS»!9«&!IS«l3«SftBfeh«>ra»a!sS«fliKi. 


In  leikllng  feirvli  • 
>  tppcnd  «  f«w  of  tl« 
lurcM,    taiiry    In    lu 

dltciple*  of  our  Loc4 
d. 

tvtlional  KidUatiami, 
Rtv.  SmmttI  Cutlrr. 

it  juit  what  ii  claimi 

of  lh«  gocpcl  U  hcra 
n'.%  with  th«  leaching! 

of  men  the  ChriiC  ol 

nenti  of  ucrcd  poetry 
le  can  read  thli  book 
t  In  the  (pirit  In  which 
lie  volume  with  hicho 
ently  acknowl«.dga  thai 
lory.  It  U  alio,  at  de> 
forth"  in  lit  heavenly 


9*  a  chapter  for  every 

ropriate  patiage*  from 

cvotional  poetry,    llie 

fotter  the  growth  of 

By  the  Xtv.  Samml 
author.  Th<-  lexta  ara 
he  Scriptural  title*  of 
I  are  for  every  week  In 
1  twenty  five  titlet  of 
>l  and  alphabetical  Uil 
uthor'i  name. 
t«  meditationt,  but  for 
I.  It  Is  a  book  which 
I.    Svagtlktt  Kmfmt> 

love  the  "Name  thai 

line  Edition  %*.oo 

rs.  Boston. 


1 


